Traitorous Gifts
by Fielding
Summary: In the aftermath of the World Power Project failure, Lucas faces what may be the most difficult summer of his life. An alternate ending to the first season finale, Ocean on Fire.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own anything seaQuest-related.

Summary: In the aftermath of the World Power Project failure, Lucas faces what may be the most difficult summer of his life. An alternate ending to the first season finale, Ocean on Fire.

Author's notes: This story starts about three-quarters of the way through Ocean on Fire and then branches off into something very different. It certainly wouldn't hurt if you've seen that episode, but I hope I wrote it in such a way that familiarity with the episode isn't necessary. The story is definitely AU, but I tried to keep it as close to canon as possible.

Author's thanks: My endless gratitude goes to Diena, who agreed to beta this story and came up with some amazing suggestions for filling out the characters and the plot. If you find any errors, blame them on her. ;-) Thanks also to Kathy, who gave the finished story a very important final read and picked up quite a few mistakes. And thanks to JOxER, who was the first person to look at this story and offered some great advice about the first two chapters.

Traitorous Gifts

Lucas Wolenczak crossed his arms over his chest, trying to disguise his shaking as another chill ran through his body. Just a few minutes ago he had told the doctor that he was fine. But in truth, he had never been more afraid in his life – which was saying a lot, given all that he'd endured in this past year on the seaQuest.

The launch bay was packed with more people than Lucas had ever seen in one place on the submarine. He imagined that most, if not all, of the civilian science staff was in here, all huddled in small groups, talking in hushed voices and trying to figure out exactly why they were being evacuated. There hadn't been enough time for the captain to make a formal announcement to the crew. Lucas could feel the panic and stress filling the room as gossip passed from one frightened scientist to another. He leaned his head back against the cool hull and closed his eyes, trying to block out the sounds around him and focus on his own fears. On what was happening with his father.

He wanted desperately to be on the bridge with the captain, not shaking here like some coward while his friends went after his father. It didn't help that the last image he had of Lawrence Wolenczak seemed permanently imprinted on his brain – his father terrified and barely in control, reaching out to his son like a man who knew he was about to die and needed to carry out his last wishes. Lucas pulled his arms more firmly into his chest and squeezed his eyes tighter shut. If only he could get that last picture out of his mind.

"Lucas, he'll be all right." Dr. Kristin Westphalen's voice, always so calm and serious, had a small quiver in it. He knew she meant the words to be encouraging, but they had the opposite effect. He opened his eyes anyway and forced a smile at her.

"I know," he said, uncrossing his arms. He rubbed his palms into his eyes but the image of his father remained. Westphalen reached an arm around his shoulders and squeezed him to her in a hug, a small sigh escaping as she leaned her forehead into his hair.

"Darwin must be terrified," she said softly, kissing the top of Lucas' head before letting up. She was rarely this physical with him and again, the attempt at comfort made his fear spike. "Did you explain to him what was going on?"

"Yeah," he said, reaching out to lay a hand on the dolphin, which was being carried by four crewmembers Lucas didn't know very well. He had told Darwin that the entire boat was being evacuated because they were attempting a particularly dangerous mission. Lucas had been tempted to tell the dolphin that the evacuation was a drill, but he knew Darwin would see right through his lie. Still, Lucas hadn't told him about his father.

"Well, he can't be as scared as I am," Westphalen said, and to her apparent surprise, Lucas nodded in agreement.

"I know," he said, and crossed his arms over his chest again. This time he knew she could feel the shiver run through his body.

xxxXXXxxx

Capt. Nathan Bridger rarely doubted his command of the seaQuest. He knew his boat and he knew his people, and more often than not he made the best decisions to keep them all off the bottom of the ocean. But just now he was starting to let some questions creep in.

He had no idea what he expected to accomplish by hovering near the disaster site that once housed the World Power Project, a noble plan to provide everyone on the planet with free, environmentally safe energy, and perhaps among the most important experiments in all of human history. Saving the project was not an option at this point. Saving the people who built that project seemed near impossible. Saving the world by stopping that heaving, boiling river of lava in the ocean floor – well, somehow he had to find a way.

It felt lonely on the bridge with just the three of them. Cmdr. Jonathan Ford was for all intents and purposes steering the seaQuest on his own, but really that just meant keeping the submarine as steady as possible until the evacuations were complete. Petty Officer William Shan was manning the WSKRS, keeping an eye out for sudden changes in the surrounding ocean environment, which seemed a somewhat ridiculous task as far as Bridger was concerned; they were practically sitting on top of a volcano, for Christ's sake. He didn't need the WSKRS to tell him the situation outside was dangerous, and quickly becoming deadly.

"What's the status in the launch bay, Commander?" Bridger asked for at least the fourth time in the past 15 minutes. If Ford was annoyed by the question he didn't show it. He quietly checked in with Lt. Cmdr. Katherine Hitchcock and reported back to his captain.

"They've only got about a third of the crew off," he said, pressing his headset into his ear as Hitchcock apparently supplied more information. "But half of the civilians are gone."

Bridger nodded but didn't look particularly impressed. It shouldn't be taking this long to evacuate, but he knew that with the tumultuous waters roiling about the submarine, they were working as quickly as possible to abandon ship.

"How about Crocker? Is he on his way?"

"Affirmative," Ford said. "He's just leaving now." To prove the point, Shan flashed on the main screen a view of the rescue shuttle leaving the boat. Its nose was pointed too high, Bridger noted, as the shuttle was rocked by a sudden burst of turbulence that also made the seaQuest groan and shake. Bridger grabbed onto the console in front of his chair to keep from toppling over. He knew he should sit down, that he would be safer commanding from his chair, but his legs seemed to have their own plans as they carried him back and forth on the bridge in a constant, jittery march.

Bridger rubbed his hands together as he paced, as though he was very cold. In fact he was sweating under the stress and he just couldn't keep his hands still. A million thoughts kept flying through his mind, and he needed to focus. Chief Manilow Crocker would reach the project headquarters in about 20 minutes, and once his rescue attempt was over – whether it was successful or not – Bridger would have to find a way to plug that hole in the ocean floor.

Suddenly a violent tremor that felt like an explosion blew Bridger out of his dark thoughts. The main screen, his view of the World Power Hydroelectric Plant, filled with the facility breaking literally in half and sliding, almost in slow motion, toward the lava bed below.

"Oh my God," Shan muttered.

"Captain, that's a highly secure UEO facility. They've got nuclear warheads in there," Ford warned.

"Get us the hell out of here," demanded Bridger, toppling toward his own console.

"Aye, sir," Ford yelled.

"Attention all personnel, this is the captain," Bridger announced over the ship-wide speakers. "Cease all evacuations immediately. I repeat, cease all evacuations. We are no longer abandoning the seaQuest. Stay where you are and brace for impact."

"Sir, WSKRS show the facility is almost at the lava," Shan called out.

"Are we far enough out, Commander?" Bridger demanded.

"I don't know, sir," Ford answered. "I think-"

Whatever he was about to say was lost as the building finally hit the molten river. With a blinding flash a fireball suddenly filled the main view in front of Bridger, lighting up the bridge in a dazzling orange. The submarine tipped violently to one side and Bridger was thrown against an equipment panel. The boat was assaulted by waves of tremors that felt like they were breaking apart the seaQuest from the inside out, making the boat moan and grumble in protest. Bridger could hear his men shouting, but their words were unintelligible over the rumbling that filled his ears.

"Report," Bridger yelled over the racket, pushing against the equipment panel so he was standing upright again.

"Just a moment, sir," Shan said, punching furiously at his control panel. "The facility is gone."

"What about the seaQuest? How is she?" Ford demanded. He looked almost in pain as he struggled to keep control of the submarine. Bridger ran shakily to Shan's side, leaning over his chair to look at the monitors himself.

"I'm running an analysis now, sir," Shan said, his steady voice giving away none of the panic he felt inside. "I show no breaches. No reports of injuries so far. Looks like she made it just fine."

Bridger joined Ford in a moment of silent thanks, but his relief was short-lived.

"Were there any survivors?" Bridger asked. "What about Crocker? Can you tell if anyone made it out?"

"I'm trying to reach Chief Crocker now, sir," Shan said, his fingers speeding over the panel. "I don't see anything-"

"Wait! What's that?" Bridger interrupted, pointing at the monitor in front of Shan. "Is that a shuttle?"

"Yes, sir, I think it is," Shan said, excitement edging his words. "Chief Crocker, this is the seaQuest, do you read?"

Bridger squeezed the back of Shan's chair as he waited for a response. Ford stared hard at them, his hands still gripping the main controls. Seconds passed.

"Try him again," Bridger said.

"Wait," Shan said, pressing a hand against his headset. "We've got him, sir. He says he's pretty shaken up, but he's all right. He's on his way back."

"Thank God," Ford muttered, turning his full attention back to his post.

Bridger closed his eyes for a moment, then blinked and stared at the monitor again.

"What about the others?" Bridger asked, his voice tinged with hope that he didn't really feel.

"I'm not reading anything, sir," Shan answered. "I'm sending the WSKRS around the site. Maybe they'll pick something up."

"Okay, Mr. Shan, let me know what you find," Bridger said, patting the lieutenant's shoulder before walking back to his seat. He stopped when he reached the seat, and turned slowly toward Ford. "Commander, is it just me or did things just get a lot quieter in here?"

"No, sir, it's not just you," Ford said, and clearly he wasn't fighting to control the boat anymore. "It seems a lot calmer out there all of a sudden."

"Mr. Shan, show us that lava stream again," Bridger said, stepping closer to the main view screen. The view panned down from the site where the World Power Hydroelectric Plant once stood, but there was no lava in sight. The ocean floor was now covered in piles of rubble.

"Oh my God. It's gone," Ford said.

"The explosion," Bridger said. "It plugged our hole."

"Captain, the sensor readings are returning to normal," Shan announced. "The water's still hot, but we don't seem to be in any immediate danger anymore."

"Commander, see about getting the rest of our crew back on board," Bridger said, finally walking back to his chair and sitting heavily. "Mr. Shan, do you have anything on survivors?"

"Nothing yet, sir," Shan called back. He paused a moment, then added softly: "I don't think anything could have made it out, Captain. Our WSKRS would have picked it up before the explosion, and after that..."

"All right," Bridger sighed, resting his head in his hands. After a moment he stood, suddenly very tired. "Commander, will you have someone send Lucas to my office?"

"Aye, sir," Ford said. He kept his eyes on his console as his captain slowly left the bridge.

xxxXXXxxx

Lucas sat quietly in a corner of the launch bay, one hand gently poking at a blossoming bruise on his left cheek. There had been no time to celebrate Bridger's news that they were no longer abandoning the seaQuest. Within seconds after his announcement, a tremor had rocked the submarine. Lucas and half a dozen other scientists who had been lining up to board an escape shuttle had been tossed like rag dolls against the walls, finally settling into a dog-pile with Lucas buried at the bottom. It had taken several disorienting moments to get everyone on their feet again, and Lucas was now sporting what would likely prove to be a spectacular black eye.

"Are you sure you're all right," Westphalen asked him for what felt like the 50th time since he'd been recovered from the bottom of the heap of scientists. She crouched by his side and pushed his hand away, leaning in to peer into his eyes.

"I'm fine," he grumbled, growing annoyed with the doctor's attentiveness. "What do you think just happened?"

"I don't know," Westphalen said, leaning back on her heels.

"It felt like something hit us," Lucas said. He reached a hand up to his face again, as though touching the bruise would somehow ease the throbbing. Westphalen sighed at him but didn't say anything. They both looked up as a speaker came to life over their heads.

"Attention all personnel, this is Commander Ford. The seaQuest is no longer in immediate danger and all military personnel are to return to their duty stations at once. Civilians should report to their supervisors and return to quarters."

A confused mumble drifted through the crewmembers still waiting in the launch bay, and then someone – Lucas guessed it was Ben Krieg, let out a loud "whoop" and everyone began to cheer and clap. The scientists who had been sulking around him were clapping each other on the backs and high-fiving, and Westphalen was beaming at his side.

"Thank God," she said softly, then glanced at Lucas. It took her a moment to register that he was not joining in the celebratory cheers. His forehead was scrunched in confusion.

"What do you think this means?" he said softly. "Is it my dad? Do you think they got him? They had to get him, right? I mean, everything must be fine or else we'd still be evacuating."

Westphalen offered him a hopeful smile, then stood up and thrust out her hand to help him to his feet. "I don't know," she said honestly, "but it seems like good news."

"Yeah, it must be good news," Lucas said. His cheek was throbbing more now that he was standing. He spotted Hitchcock headed in their direction, her face set in a grim frown. This day hadn't been easy for her, Lucas suspected, and now she was faced with the daunting task of retrieving all of the scientists and military personnel who had already been sent upworld.

"Lucas, the captain wants to see you in his office," Hitchcock said.

"Do you know why?"

"Um, no, I didn't think to ask," she said, distracted by a scientist who was still lying in the launch bay.

"I'll come with you, Lucas," Westphalen said, apparently reading the panic that had briefly washed over his face. "I need to talk to Nathan anyway."

Lucas nodded, but before they could walk three steps Hitchcock was calling back at them.

"Doctor, we need you over here. I think Dr. Levi might have a head injury."

"Damn," Westphalen muttered, and gave Lucas a short, concerned stare.

"It's okay," he said. "I'm sure everything's fine. Who knows, maybe my dad's on board already."

Westphalen smiled and gave his arm a brief squeeze, then rushed back to the side of the fallen scientist. Lucas looked after her for a moment, then walked quickly out of the launch bay.

The walk to Bridger's office seemed to grow more agonizing the closer Lucas got. He wanted to believe that everything was fine, and if he thought about it logically, that answer made sense. The seaQuest had obviously stopped all of the violent shaking and shuddering that had been pummeling the crew for the past hour. They were no longer abandoning ship. Everything must be okay then. But still, a small part of him suspected that answer was too easy. He'd seen the lava running under his father's facility, and something like a river of molten rock didn't just disappear for no reason. And then there was the explosion a few minutes ago. He had no idea what that was all about.

By the time Lucas arrived at the door to Bridger's office, his palms were slick with sweat and his mind was humming with horrific images of what might have happened. He paused to collect himself, taking deep breaths and forcing his hands to unfurl from their fists. It couldn't possibly be as bad as he imagined. Everything was going to be fine. He knocked on the door.

"Enter."

Lucas pushed the hatch open and stepped carefully inside, his heart still racing in his chest despite his best efforts to calm himself.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Sit down, Lucas." Bridger was standing in front of his desk, his face unreadable. He watched Lucas sit, and then joined him in a chair beside the desk. He leaned forward, his hands clasped, his eyes serious.

"What's going on, sir?"

"You must have felt the explosion a few minutes ago," he started, and Lucas nodded slowly, his eyes glued to Bridger's face. "That was the World Power Hydroelectric Plant. It broke apart and slid into the lava bed."

"My father-"

"The facility housed several nuclear warheads, and they exploded on impact with the lava. There were no survivors. I'm sorry, Lucas, but your father is dead."

Lucas was hit first with an absurd urge to laugh, to grin and shout that this wasn't possible, that his father couldn't be dead. But the laugh didn't come, and instead he was frozen, he couldn't blink, couldn't breathe, couldn't move at all. He felt like he was falling down a dark hole and the bottom would never arrive. He was dizzy, the room was spinning and fading, his body felt too heavy.

And then all at once he was caught in the reality of the moment, and the shock was stunning. He closed his eyes hard and found himself gasping for breath. He was choking. Bridger stood and kneeled in front of him, pulling him into a furious hug, burying Lucas' head into his chest.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated, rubbing Lucas' back.

Lucas stayed in the embrace for several minutes, unable to cry or react, just focusing on breathing and pulling himself through the moment. Finally he pulled slowly away, rubbing at his eyes as though he were suddenly very tired. He rested his head in his hands for a few quiet moments, and then looked up to find Bridger studying him carefully.

"Are you okay?"

Lucas shook his head. "No." The word came out as a croak, and he repeated it softly.

"Sorry, dumb question," Bridger said.

Lucas stared down at his hands for a moment, then looked back up at the captain with dry eyes.

"Tell me what happened, exactly."

Bridger gave him an apologetic wince. "We don't know. Crocker was on his way to retrieve your father and the others, and then all of a sudden the building was falling. We saw it break apart, and then it hit the lava and, well, you felt the explosion."

"Couldn't they have gotten out? They had shuttles, and escape pods."

"Yes, they did, but our WSKRS didn't pick up anything," Bridger said, leaning forward to squeeze Lucas' knee. Lucas jumped at the touch, his nerves frazzled, and Bridger drew his hand away. "We looked all around the area, Lucas, but there was nothing. No one got out."

Lucas nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling.

"But is it possible that you missed something?" Lucas asked.

"Lucas, I don't think-" Bridger was interrupted by a beep from his PAL. He gave it an angry glare, then turned back to Lucas. "Hold on a second," he said to Lucas, then barked into the PAL: "Bridger here."

"Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but the secretary general has been asking for you." Ford's voice, full of apology, filled the room. "He's aware of the situation, and he said it's critical that he speak to you immediately."

Bridger sighed. "All right, patch him through." He turned to Lucas, leaning forward on his knees. "I'm sorry, but I've got to take this, kiddo. Just hold on for a few minutes and I'll tell you everything you need to know."

"No, that's okay," Lucas said quickly, his voice shaky as he stood up. "I think, um, I think I need to be alone, for a little while anyway."

"Lucas, you don't have to go."

"I know," he said, moving toward the door. "I just need some time to myself. I'll be okay."

"Lucas-"

"Really, Captain, I need to go." He was already at the door.

"I'll check in on you in a few minutes," Bridger called after him, but Lucas didn't answer. "Damn."

Bridger closed the door to his office and turned to face the vid-link, where Secretary General William Noyce's face was already filling the monitor.

"Bill, can you wait just a second?" Bridger asked. The admiral nodded and turned to an aide at his side. Bridger picked up his PAL and contacted Westphalen.

"Nathan?" her voice sounded tinny and small.

"Kristin, are you busy right now?"

"There are some minor casualties in the launch bay, but I've got it under control. What's going on, Nathan?" She sounded anxious.

"I need you to check on Lucas," Bridger said softly.

"Why?" He could tell from her tone that she already knew the answer.

"His father didn't make it."

"Oh, God. How did Lucas take it?" Kristin asked, her sympathy obvious even through the PAL.

"I don't know. He's upset. He said he wanted to be alone."

"He can't be alone right now," Kristen insisted.

"I know."

"I can be at his room in 5 minutes," she said.

"Thank you, Kristin."

"Nathan, I'm sorry."

"Me too," he whispered, and set the PAL on his desk. When he turned back to face the secretary general, Noyce was staring thoughtfully at him. He cleared his voice before speaking.

"I heard about Dr. Wolenczak, Nathan. I'm sorry," he said. "How's Lucas?"

Bridger sighed. "Not good," he said.

"Of course not," Noyce said gravely, and bowed his head for a moment. "Look, I know you've got a lot on your plate right now, but I need the seaQuest to stay where it is for another week or two."

Bridger looked up at Noyce as though the secretary general were asking the impossible.

"Bill, we're already 24 hours overdue out here," he said.

"I know, I know," Noyce said, holding up a hand. "I'm sorry to have to do this to you, but we need someone out there to lead the clean-up and figure out what the hell happened. A team of UEO technicians is already on its way to you."

"Some of my people have other assignments. We'll need replacements," Bridger said, his frustration building even as he realized Noyce's orders made sense.

"Of course, anything you need, just ask," Noyce said. "We'll have transportation waiting for anyone who needs it."

Bridger sighed deeply and nodded.

"I'm sure you did your best, Nathan," Noyce added.

"I hope so," Bridger said, and his friend smiled sympathetically and signed off, leaving him alone with his unhappy thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

As with most other problems he had faced in the past, Lucas found the answer to his grief in his work. Westphalen had arrived at his cabin door no more than five minutes after his conversation with Bridger, and already Lucas had been at his desk, engrossed in a computer program. He at first had shrugged off her requests to talk, but finally had given in and agreed to listen to her about how sorry she was and how he could lean on her during his mourning process. Lucas had listened quietly to her, nodding when appropriate, his face a mask of sadness as he worked through a complicated computer virus in his head. Finally Westphalen had understood that he wasn't ready to talk, and after a smothering hug, she'd left.

That was three days ago, and now Lucas was thoroughly miserable.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed eyes that felt gritty and swollen. He was having a terrible time concentrating, his mind refusing to focus on any project. Even simple tasks – reading Crocker's report analyzing the security system upgrade he'd completed in the docking bay last month, for example – were proving daunting. With a jolt of self-loathing, Lucas wondered if his father's death was having a bigger effect on him than he would admit. But no, he refused to believe he cared that much. His father hadn't been interested in him when he was alive; Lucas was determined to return the favor now that he was dead.

Lucas shook his head and sat up straight, pounding his fists into his desk. After one more attempt at reading the security report, his frustration finally got the better of him and he stood up, hoping a break might help his concentration. He hadn't slept more than three hours at a time in the past three days, and he hoped he might finally have worked himself to such a point of exhaustion that rest would come easily for once.

He caught site of himself in a mirror on his locker door as he made his way to his bed. Lucas paused in front of the mirror, momentarily distracted by his reflection. He looked awful. His eyes were red and puffy. The bruise from three days ago, still tender to the touch, was likely at its peak black and blue stage. His cheeks were flushed pink, the rest of his face pale underneath. Lucas gaped at himself for a moment, then sighed and closed his eyes wearily. He was so tired.

He had barely collapsed into his bunk when he heard a sharp, impatient knock at his door.

"Who-" he started, surprised when his voice came out as a croak. He cleared his throat. "Who is it?"

Westphalen's head popped in, a suspicious smile on her face.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," she said, and stepped all the way into his room. "How are you doing today?"

"Fine." He knew Westphalen didn't buy his answer – his pale, tired features didn't escape her scrutiny – but she apparently didn't have time to press him right now.

"Good," she said. "I have something for you. Come on, get up."

"What's going on?" Lucas said, sitting up so he was leaning on his elbows.

"The flu," Westphalen said irritably. "Everyone needs to be immunized."

Lucas coughed and pushed himself into a proper sitting position.

"The flu?" he asked.

"Don't ask," she said with a shake of her head.

"Do you always make house calls for the flu?" he asked warily.

"Only for especially stubborn cases. Now roll up your sleeve."

Lucas obliged, tensing as Westphalen leaned in to give him the vaccine. But she stopped suddenly and stared hard at him. Before Lucas could react, she'd placed a hand across his forehead.

"Damn," she said softly.

"What?" Lucas asked, trying to swat her hands away as she moved down to feel the glands on either side of his neck.

"I'm too late, you're already sick," she said.

"I'm not sick."

Westphalen laughed mildly.

"What?" Lucas demanded, indignant.

"I'm sorry, Lucas, but you're definitely sick," she said, looking him up and down now. "I'm just surprised I didn't see it right away. How long have you been feeling ill?"

"I'm not-"

"Lucas."

He sighed. "I don't know. Since last night, I guess."

"Yes, that would make sense," Westphalen said, looking thoughtful. "Okay, I'm not going to take you with me, but I need you to promise that you're going to stay in bed, rest and drink lots of fluids. I'll send someone down with something for the fever."

"I don't really feel that bad, you know," he said.

"Perhaps," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "But all the same, if you don't take care of yourself I can prepare a very nice bed for you in the med bay."

Lucas stared hard at her, debating how far he could challenge the doctor. But finally he decided he felt too sick to bother, and he sighed and leaned back in bed.

"Who gets the flu these days, anyway?" he grumbled as Westphalen fussed with his blankets.

"That's what I'd like to know," she said. "Now get some sleep. I'll check in on you in a few hours."

xxxXXXxxx

It had been some time since Bridger had seen the doctor this enraged. Wesphalen was pacing furiously across the length of his office, steam practically billowing out of her ears. Her face was a deep red and her voice was raised to a near yell.

Within 16 hours of the facility's explosion, a team of 30 seismological experts and hydropower researchers had arrived on the seaQuest to look into the World Power Project failure. As it turned out, one of them had arrived with a particularly nasty case of the flu, which he had promptly passed on to 23 seaQuest crewmembers before Westphalen could inoculate everyone.

"I can't believe it, in this day and age, the flu of all things!" Westphalen ranted. "Who gets the flu anymore? No one's seen a case of it in nearly 15 years. And what were they thinking, letting an ill man on my ship?"

"Your ship?" Bridger asked, watching her in mild amusement. She waved him off.

"Oh, don't get into semantics with me, Nathan. You know what I mean," she fumed. "We have standards about medical evaluations for a reason. I don't care how important it was to get these scientists on the seaQuest right away. There is simply no excuse for letting a sick man on this submarine."

"I agree, and we'll find out what went wrong," Bridger placated. "But in the meantime, what's the damage?"

"I have 16 scientists and seven enlisted men down. And it isn't pretty," said Westphalen, who had stopped pacing and was now facing Bridger. She began counting off symptoms on her fingers. "They've all got fevers, chills, nausea, headaches, congestion, coughs-"

Bridger held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I remember the flu, you know. Are they going to be all right?"

"Of course they'll be all right. They'll be just fine," Westphalen said. "If they follow my orders, that is. They'll need bed-rest for at least 48 hours, plenty of liquids, regular doses of acetaminophen to keep their fevers down-"

"And I'm sure they'll get all the medical attention they need from you and your staff," Bridger finished for her, wincing as Westphalen tossed an irritated glare at him for interrupting. "How about Lucas? Is he okay?"

Westphalen finally stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath before answering him.

"Yes, he'll be fine," she said. "But I'm worried about him, Nathan. He was exhausted even before he got sick. I'm sure he hasn't been sleeping well. He's working himself too hard. And-" She stopped.

"And what?"

"Well, I don't think he's talking to anybody, about his father, I mean," she finished. "He stays in his room almost all the time. Several people have come to me and said they've tried to get him to open up, but he won't say a thing."

Bridger sighed, shaking his head. "I know," he said. "I've tried myself. Several times. He refuses to talk at all. That kid is too stubborn for his own good."

They stood in thoughtful silence for a moment, Westphalen chewing on a nail. As if finally realizing what she was doing, she threw down her hand in disgust and groaned in frustration.

"And now this, this flu, on top of everything else," she said, her voice rising in anger. "Sometimes it seems like that poor boy has a 'kick me' sign taped to his back."

Bridger couldn't help but laugh a little at her comment.

"What?" she said sharply, apparently annoyed at his laughter.

"Lucas said the same thing to me this morning," Bridger said, shaking his head and smiling. "Well, except he didn't use 'poor boy' to describe himself."

"I don't know how to help him, Nathan," Westphalen said quietly.

"Me neither," Bridger agreed, stepping forward to give the doctor's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "I think we just wait. And we hope he comes to us when he's ready."

xxxXXXxxx

Lucas shut his eyes and tipped his head back, letting the near-scalding hot water run down his bare neck and chest, inhaling deeply as the rising steam enveloped his face. After three days of nearly non-stop sympathy from his shipmates, he was fed up with being treated like some fragile, emotional child. Still, sympathy had its advantages. There weren't many places to buy flowers or cards on a submarine, so Lucas instead had been flooded with other useful "gifts" – including lots of donated water rations, a very hot commodity on a ship where effective, but far-from-relaxing, ion showers were the norm. He knew Westphalen would probably tie him down in an infirmary bed if she found him here, but seeing as how he was in the men's shower room, the chances of discovery were in his favor. Besides, the hot water felt so good.

It was also clearing his mind. For days, Lucas had been doing everything within his power to keep his mind off his dad. Even in the best of circumstances Lucas liked to stay in control. His father's death had left him perilously vulnerable, his emotions too close to the surface. He wanted to feel nothing. He wanted to put his father's death – in fact, everything about his relationship with Dr. Wolenczak – behind him.

But as he soaked himself under the water, running his hair through the stream until rivulets were cascading down his face, Lucas found his thoughts drifting unbidden toward memories of his father. To be sure, there weren't many pleasant memories. His relationship with his father hadn't been like that of most boys. They'd never played catch or talked about girls. His father hadn't taught him how to drive a car or shave or knot a tie. He'd learned all about sex from older kids when he was an outcast child in college – Lucas could laugh now at what a traumatic discovery that had been.

Nonetheless, he and his father had had their moments. They'd shared a passion for science, even if his father had always been more interested in his political agendas than true discovery. They'd also shared a similar sense of humor, and on the rare occasions when his father had joined the family for dinner, he and Lucas had sometimes lapsed into fits of giggles that left them breathless and his mother feeling left out.

Lucas could remember attending an international conference with his father when he was just 6 years old. Yes, Dr. Wolenczak had mostly just wanted to show off his son, still newly discovered as a genius. But during a formal dinner on the final night of the conference, his father had seen Lucas fidgeting at the table, bored with the adult conversation and still at an age where he was picky about what he ate. He'd been pushing several pieces of expensive, and likely illegal, sushi around his plate for nearly an hour, and he'd molded his serving of sticky rice into a double-helix shape. Lucas had caught his father staring at him and at first had been overcome with fear that he'd done something wrong, something embarrassing. But his father had smiled, and five minutes later he'd excused himself and Lucas and treated his son to French fries and a milkshake at a nearby fast food restaurant. To this day it was the best milkshake Lucas had ever tasted.

In his shower, Lucas smiled at the memories. They did not make up for the fact that his father had all but abandoned him when he was just a child. That he'd been neglectful and occasionally downright cruel. But it felt good to know that there was some bit of good wrapped up in all the hate he directed at his father.

"Hey, how about saving some water for the rest of us?"

The angry, booming voice interrupted Lucas' thoughts and his eyes snapped open. He'd been so caught up in his memories that he'd forgotten where he was. Lucas quickly reached down to shut off the water and leaned over the stall to grab his towel.

"Oh, Lucas, sorry, I didn't know it was you," said Krieg, who had already stripped and was walking toward him with a towel wrapped tight around his waist. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, it's okay, I was done anyway," Lucas said. He shivered as he dried off, the chill already starting to return to his fevered body.

"You know, Westphalen's gonna kill you if she finds out you're in here," Krieg called from the next stall over, where he had just started up a shower of his own. Not for the first time, Lucas wondered where Krieg got his seemingly endless supply of water rations.

"Well let's hope no one tells her," Lucas called back, grateful that the steam seemed to have cleared up the croak in his voice for the time being. He stepped into boxer shorts and a pair of jeans, then worked the towel through his hair, hoping to dry it enough so he wouldn't draw Westphalen's suspicion if he ran into her on the way back to his room.

"So how are you feeling?" Krieg asked. Lucas rolled his eyes. He knew the question had little to do with the flu. Like nearly everyone else on board the seaQuest, Krieg had been constantly checking up on him and asking, not necessarily directly, about his father.

"Sick," Lucas said, and he could just imagine Krieg rolling his own eyes at the obvious answer.

"Sorry about that," Krieg said.

"It's not your fault," Lucas muttered to himself. He'd been muttering that a lot lately.

"What was that?" Krieg yelled.

"Nothing," Lucas said, and groaned inwardly at the croak that had returned to his voice. He pulled a turtleneck over his head just as the water was shut off in Krieg's stall. The lieutenant's wet head popped out of the shower.

"Lucas, you know if you ever want to talk, I'm-"

"Yeah, I know, you're there for me," Lucas said, wincing at the disappointment and worry he read on Krieg's face. "Thanks, really. I'm just not ready to talk about it yet."

"That's okay, you don't have to," Krieg said quickly. They were quiet as Krieg dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist again. When he stepped out of the shower, he put an affectionate arm around Lucas' shoulders and walked him toward the lockers. "You know, a group of us are playing cards tonight. Maybe if you feel up to it you'd want to join us."

"Yeah, maybe," Lucas said, knowing that Westphalen wouldn't just tie him to a bed if she found him playing cards – she'd probably knock him unconscious.

"We'll be in O'Neill's quarters at 2100 hours," Krieg said. "I'll even loan you 20 bucks, just to get you started."

Lucas' eyes widened in awe.

"Wow, 20 bucks? You must really feel bad for me," he said.

"Yeah, well," Krieg shrugged, and Lucas swore he could see him starting to blush.

"And O'Neill's playing?" Lucas asked.

"Yep," Krieg said, rubbing his hands in anticipation. "We're talking a sure thing, my friend."

Lucas sighed and headed toward the door.

"I don't believe in sure things," he said, and left with a brief wave goodbye.

By the time Lucas returned to his quarters, the symptoms that had been temporarily alleviated by the shower were returning in full force. He felt dizzy and lightheaded as he staggered through his door and collapsed onto his bed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this exhausted. He was grateful that at least the antihistemine Westphalen had given him seemed to be keeping his sinuses clear and the coughing at bay. But it didn't help the chills or the fatigue, and his head was still throbbing. He was tempted to just crawl under the covers fully clothed, but he knew the only way to avoid the doctor's wrath was to look as though he was taking proper care of himself, and that meant not sleeping in jeans and a turtleneck. Lucas sighed and stood up, looking around his cluttered room for the sweatpants and T-shirt he sometimes slept in. Instead, as was often the case, he was distracted by his computer.

Lucas saw that he had received a new message while he was in the shower. The sender wasn't familiar to him, but it was undoubtedly another sympathy note. Still, Lucas could rarely resist opening any mail, no matter the content. He sat heavily in the chair in front of his computer and opened the message. And his heart promptly jumped into his throat.

"Lucas, it's your father. I'm all right."

Those first words seemed to spring right off his computer and slap him in the face. For a moment Lucas couldn't read any further. His mind was reeling and he was staring so hard at the words that they seemed to blur and waver in front of him. He shook his head and forced himself to read the whole thing.

__

Lucas,

It's your father. I'm all right.

I'm sorry I don't have more time to write now, but I had to tell you that I'm still alive and I love you.

However, it is crucial, for your sake and mine, that you tell no one that I am alive. You have to trust me, son. It is a matter of life and death. I can't tell you where I am and we cannot speak in person. But please write back to me when you get this message.

I'm sorry for all the pain I must have caused you with reports of my death. It was the only way.

Be careful.

Dad


	3. Chapter 3

Lucas read the message at least a dozen times before he forced himself to look away from the monitor and think about what the words meant. His father was alive?

It had to be a sick joke. Bridger had said there were no survivors; he'd been sure of it. Lucas couldn't even begin to imagine what would compel someone to lie about such a thing, but he knew from personal experience that people frequently did cruel, terrible things to each other. He narrowed his eyes at the monitor and punched out a reply.

__

I don't believe you. My father is dead. Whoever you are, find someone else to play with. Leave me alone.

Lucas frowned at the words. They didn't quite seem to do justice to his disgust, but he was tired and his headache was pounding between his eyes. It was the best he could do right now. He was about to send the message when a knock came at his door. Lucas had just enough time to send the message before he looked over his shoulder and saw Bridger in his doorway, a timid smile on his face.

"Hope I'm not disturbing you."

Lucas swirled around in his chair to face Bridger.

"Um, no," he said, thankful that the fever was probably hiding the blush he could feel growing on his cheeks. He felt strangely as though he'd just been caught misbehaving. "I was just getting ready for bed."

Bridger looked at the computer and then at Lucas, who was still fully dressed.

"I see," he said. "Do you mind if I sit down for a minute?"

"Sure, go ahead," Lucas said. Bridger swept some clothes off the top of Lucas' bunk and sat down.

"How are you feeling?"

"Not great," Lucas admitted.

"Yeah, I bet," Bridger said, a sympathetic frown crossing his face. "Well, Dr. Westphalen said you should be feeling better in a few days."

Lucas nodded slowly and coughed.

"I wanted to talk to you about the funeral," Bridger started, leaning toward Lucas, his hands folded. "It's coming up, right?"

"It's a memorial service," Lucas corrected. The UEO had managed to turn his father's funeral into a giant political shindig.

"I know," Bridger said. "Your father was a pretty big deal to a lot of people."

"Yeah, I guess," Lucas said with a mild, unconvincing nod.

"Look, I know this isn't an easy time for you," Bridger said carefully. "So I thought, if you wanted, that maybe I would go to the service with you."

"You didn't even know him," Lucas said.

"I know," Bridger answered. "But, Lucas, funerals, or memorials in this case, aren't for the dead, they're for the living. I would go for you, if you want me there."

When Lucas didn't answer right away, Bridger leaned forward and cupped Lucas' cheek, the captain's eyes searching his face. Lucas swallowed hard and looked around his room, trying to avoid Bridger's stare. He appreciated the captain's offer, and he was grateful that this man he had come to respect so much in the past year was willing to support him and look after him right now. Truth be told, a part of him wanted to give in and accept that help and let everything go. But a greater part of him felt so tired, ill and completely lost that he wanted nothing more than to fall into his bed and sleep for days.

And then, for seemingly no reason at all, Lucas felt his eyes prickling with tears and he blinked rapidly, staring at the floor and trying to will away his emotions. He felt a sob creeping up in his chest and he swallowed hard. There was no way he could answer Bridger now. He silently cursed himself for losing control. Why now? He'd been so strong these past few days, able to restrain his emotions. He wasn't ready to give in like this.

"Lucas," Bridger's voice was soft, and Lucas felt the tears welling now, threatening to spill down his cheeks. He was so tired. "Hey, it's okay, kiddo. It's all right. Everything's going to be all right."

Now Bridger was kneeling on the floor in front of him, reaching for Lucas and pulling him into a hug. But Lucas refused to give in to his emotions. He sucked in great breaths and forced the sobs down. He squeezed his eyes until he was certain they were dry. Finally he pushed back at Bridger and pasted a weary smile on his face.

"I'm okay," he managed, his voice cracking just slightly. Bridger leaned back on his heels, studying him a moment before he sat back on the bed. He looked mildly disappointed.

"I know," he said. "I know you're okay. But it's okay to grieve a little, Lucas. It's okay to let go."

Lucas didn't say anything, just nodded and looked away.

"Well, just think about the memorial," Bridger said. "You can tell me later if you want me to go with you."

He stood up and walked slowly to the door. Before he opened it, Lucas called out to him.

"Captain, are you sure my father couldn't have made it out?"

He wasn't sure where that question had come from. Surely he wasn't taking the message he'd received seriously. It was a joke. His father was dead.

Bridger took a moment to turn around. Lucas could imagine him collecting his thoughts, figuring out how to handle his question gently but firmly. He knew he shouldn't have asked, but he realized that he needed desperately to hear Bridger's answer. Bridger finally turned and kneeled again in front of Lucas.

"I'm sorry, Lucas," he said. "But there's just no way. We would have seen him leave before the facility went down, and afterwards, well, no one could have survived that."

Lucas nodded, but then he found himself asking another question.

"What if he was trying to escape without anyone noticing? Would it be possible? Could he have gotten by the WSKRS if he was trying to avoid us?"

Bridger shook his head.

"You know how the WSKRS work," he said gently. "We would have picked up anything moving in or out of that facility."

"Okay," Lucas said, barely whispering.

"It's going to take time, Lucas," Bridger said, craning his neck so he could look into Lucas' face. "You just have to give yourself time to accept this. Trust me."

"I know," Lucas said quietly.

"You should probably get some sleep," Bridger said, squeezing Lucas' knee before rising to his feet again. "I'll check in on you in the morning, okay?"

"Yeah," Lucas said. He didn't watch as Bridger let himself out of the room.

When the door had shut and Lucas was sure Bridger was long gone, he took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. Then he swung around in his chair and stared at his monitor. His head was spinning and he needed to calm down, relax. He spent a few minutes trying to trace the address of the person who had pretended to be his father, but as expected, the trail bounced all over the world, buried under countless layers of security. People were too cautious with their mail these days, Lucas mused. Under different circumstances – if he were bored and looking for a challenge – he might have tried harder to find the sender, but he felt terrible, and he didn't see the point of searching anyway.

Finally, his head still spinning and his thoughts unfocused, Lucas got ready for bed. He found his bedclothes buried under a rumpled pile of dirty laundry in a corner of his room and within a few minutes he was collapsing onto his bunk. He couldn't remember the last time his bed had felt so comfortable, the sheets cool against his flushed skin and the pillow wonderfully soft. Lucas burrowed his head under the blankets. His last thought before drifting off was that he would ask the captain to attend the memorial with him. With that, he was certain everything would be better in the morning.

xxxXXXxxx

In fact, things were far from better when Lucas woke up the next morning. He opened his eyes to the fuzzy, distorted face of Westphalen, who was hovering over him and saying something he couldn't understand. He couldn't remember ever feeling as miserable as he did at that moment. He was unbearably hot, his body felt too heavy to move and the pounding in his head was painful enough to make him think that his brain had outgrown his skull and was now about to burst through his temples. And all the while, Westphalen kept talking to him and shaking him at the shoulders. Lucas moaned a long, desperate "no" and tried to bury his head under a pillow.

"Lucas," Westphalen said, her voice sharp and crisp. "Lucas, I need you to wake up."

"Go away," he managed, his words muffled by the pillow over his head.

"I'm sorry, but you have to get up now," she said, grabbing Lucas by the shoulders and rolling him onto his back. Lucas cracked his eyes open again but closed them immediately when the light in his room cranked up the throbbing in his head another notch. He threw an arm over his eyes and muttered another "no."

Westphalen sighed, reaching out to feel his forehead. She pushed his hair back from his face.

"Lucas, you need to go to the medical bay. Your fever is too high," she said patiently, as though explaining something to a small child. "If you don't get up now, you'll have to be taken there on a stretcher."

He didn't say anything, too tired to argue with her. He heard Westphalen heave a great sigh and felt her shift on the bed.

"Okay, we're going to give this one more try," she announced.

She leaned forward again and slid her hands under his armpits, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him toward her as though in a hug. He struggled as she picked him up, realizing as his head lulled against her shoulder that his body felt extraordinarily heavy. He felt as though he could barely move, even with her help. Finally upright in bed, his legs dangling over the side, he slouched against the doctor, his head drooping onto her shoulder.

"Well, a lot of good that did," Westphalen muttered.

"C'mon, just another hour," Lucas moaned, and she caught him as he started to lean back toward his pillow.

"No way, not after that effort," Westphalen grunted, pulling him back up. He cracked his eyes open and found her looking at him appraisingly. "How are you doing?"

"Not so good," he mumbled sleepily.

"Do you think you can walk?"

Lucas nodded briefly.

"You're sure?"

He nodded again, closing his eyes.

"I can still call for a stretcher."

He shook his head hard at that, wincing.

"Okay," she said. "You ready to stand up?"

"Just a minute," he whispered. "I just need a minute."

"All right," Westphalen said. She rubbed his back as they sat quietly for a moment.

"I thought this was just the flu," he muttered. "No big deal."

"Well, it's not supposed to be a big deal when you take your medicine," Westphalen said, leaning over him to grab something off his desk. He cringed when she opened her hand and showed him the pills, two aspirin, he hadn't taken the night before.

"Oops," he said.

"Oops indeed," she said, slipping the pills in her pocket. "You ready to go now?"

He sighed deeply and nodded. "Yeah, let's go."

xxxXXXxxx

An hour later, Bridger watched as Lucas suffered through a fitful nap in the med bay, a cooling blanket tucked around his body and damp cloths pressed against his neck and face. His fever had spiked at 104.7 degrees, but already Westphalen had seen it drop to a safer 102. Lucas was still uncomfortable, alternately kicking off his blankets while asleep and then waking to complain that he was too cold, but he would be fine in a few hours. Confident with his progress, Westphalen and Bridger left the med bay to attend a meeting with the visiting scientists. Apparently their preliminary report on the disaster at the World Power Project was complete.

When Bridger arrived in the conference room, three of the visiting scientists were already seated around a long, oval table; they were waiting for a fourth to arrive. Ford were standing at the head of the table, watching the scientists carefully with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked up when Bridger and Westphalen entered.

"How's Lucas?" Ford asked.

"He'll be fine," Westphalen said. "I don't know what he was thinking, skipping his medication like that."

"What happened?" Ford asked.

"Lucas forgot to take the aspirin I gave him for his fever," Westphalen explained. "When you skip doses like that it can make the fever suddenly spike, and that's exactly what happened. He was practically delirious when I found him this morning."

"I thought you said the flu wasn't dangerous," Ford said.

"Well, ordinarily it's not," Westphalen said. "But of course with Lucas, all bets are off."

Bridger and Ford laughed softly at this, and Westphalen smiled briefly, then her face fell serious.

"Really, the flu is rarely serious for healthy adults, but it certainly can turn more serious and even lead to pneumonia if you aren't careful," she said. "And given Lucas' recent health, the fact that he hasn't been sleeping or eating well, his emotional state…Well, I should have been more careful."

"Hey, don't beat yourself up," Bridger said, squeezing her shoulder. "You said he'll be fine."

"Of course he'll be fine," she said, giving Bridger a teasing glare. "But I should have been paying closer attention."

Before Bridger could respond, the fourth scientist jogged into the room with a quick apology. Bridger gave the doctor's arm one more affectionate squeeze, then they all sat at the table, the three crewmembers facing the four scientists.

"So, I understand you have some conclusions for us," Bridger said, opening the meeting.

"Yes, yes we do," said Dr. Rebecca Strung, the scientist sitting directly across from Bridger. She quickly passed a thin packet of papers around the table and flipped her own open to the second page. "But before we give you our conclusions on what exactly happened at the World Power Project, there is a more pressing matter to attend to."

Bridger looked up at her, noting the tension in her voice. The doctor, a heavy middle-aged woman with her hair pinned into a messy bun on the top of her head, was frowning deeply at him. The scientist to her right, Dr. Rudolf Schroeder, was tapping his fingers loudly on the tabletop and fidgeting in his chair.

"Okay," Bridger said slowly. "What's going on?"

"To put it simply, the crevasse in the ocean floor is opening again," Strung said. "If we don't find some way to close it, we'll be facing an environmental disaster on a global scale."

"We can't stress enough just how critical this situation could become," added the man to Strung's left, Dr. Albert Tome. "Entire cities would drown, Australia would turn into an island the size of Hawaii-"

Bridger held up a hand. "Yes, we're well aware of the possibilities," he said. "How do you suggest we close up this hole? And permanently, this time."

"Bombs," Strung said. "Lots of nuclear bombs."

"Bombs?" questioned Ford. "How exactly would bombs close up a hole in the ocean floor? I thought bombs were used for making holes, not closing them."

"Well, it's really basic physics," started Strung. "The inertial force of the blasts would act as an equalizing-"

Bridger held up a hand, interrupting the scientist's explanation with a firm shake of his head.

"Let's put the physics lesson aside for now," he said. "You need bombs to close the hole. Fine, we'll take your word for it. How much time do we have?"

"We can't say for sure," Strung said. "It could take weeks for the hole to reopen to a point where it would become dangerous."

"Or it could be just a matter of a day or two," Tome said, running a shaking hand over his thinning hair.

"It will take at least a day to get those kinds of explosives here," Ford said to Bridger.

"Well then let's hope these scientists aren't under-estimating that hole," Bridger said. "Just in case, I'd like to start evacuations again. I want nothing more than a skeleton crew in 12 hours."

"Yes, sir," Ford said.

"So we'll wait it out here until the bombs arrive, and then we'll let the explosives guys do the dirty work," Bridger said, clearly not pleased with the situation at hand. "If you guys don't mind, I think I'll let you save your report on the World Power Project for the UEO officials. It's not going to do us a lot of good here."

Three of the scientists nodded, clearly relieved that they had gotten their message out. They began to tuck their papers back into briefcases and Bridger began to stand up.

"Well, if that's all-" Bridger started.

"Um, Captain Bridger, excuse me, but that's not all."

Bridger looked at the end of the table where the voice had come from. The fourth scientists, Dr. Ling Wu, was actually raising his hand, as though waiting to be called on to speak. Bridger recognized Wu as the man who had arrived on the seaQuest with the flu – apparently fully recovered now – and treated him to a glare that the scientist didn't notice. Bridger looked around the table and sat back in his seat. Westphalen and Ford followed his lead.

"Go ahead," Bridger said, nodding at Wu. He saw that the other scientists were beginning to look nervous again.

"Sir, my esteemed colleagues believe we have well over 24 hours before the next lava eruption breaks out, but I believe that is a far too conservative estimate. From the tests I've run, I believe we could be in extreme danger from that lava flow in less than 12 hours, and certainly within a day."

Bridger took a moment to digest this new information. There was no way they could get enough nuclear bombs to the site within 12 hours.

"You must know that it would be impossible to transport the explosive materials we would need in that short a time frame," Bridger began.

"Yes, I'm aware of that," Wu said.

"So, assuming your analysis is correct, how would you propose we stop that hole from re-opening?" Bridger asked.

Westphalen noticed that now the other scientists were staring hard at the table, refusing to make eye contact. Wu also looked afraid, but didn't look away from Bridger.

"Between the nuclear missiles and the engine itself, the seaQuest would have enough explosive material to close-"

"Are you suggesting that we dive the seaQuest into the bottom of the ocean?" Ford asked incredulously, starting to rise out of his seat.

"Hold on, Commander," Bridger said. "Is that your proposal, Doctor?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but yes it is," Wu said.

"Surely there must be another option," Westphalen said, her words firm but betraying no emotion.

Wu shook his head lamely. "None that I can think of," he said.

The room settled into an uncomfortable silence, Wu now joining his colleagues in a careful study of the tabletop. Ford sat fuming in his chair, his hands balled into fists in front of him. Westphalen rested her chin in her hand, looking thoughtful.

"Well, I guess we just hope that it doesn't come to that, don't we?" Bridger said, standing. Westphalen looked up at him in surprise.

"Sir, you can't be seriously considering sinking the seaQuest," Ford said, the words coming out as a low hiss.

"Unfortunately, I am. If you have any better ideas, you know where to find me," he said to Ford, then turned to the rest of the group. "Thank you for your help. I'd recommend you return to your quarters now and pack. We'll all be leaving soon."

Bridger turned sharply and walked out, leaving behind a room full of surprised faces.


	4. Chapter 4

For the second time in less than 12 hours, Lucas awoke to Westphalen's hazy face swimming over him. He blinked rapidly several times and shrunk back into the pillow of his med bay bed.

"Feeling better?" she asked, smiling expectantly at him.

Lucas took inventory of his various discomforts before answering. He still felt fuzzy and tired, but his head seemed to have ceased its relentless hammering, and he was thinking much clearer than before.

"Yeah," he said, and carefully pushed himself up in bed, so he was sitting against his pillow.

"Good, then you're free to go," she said, picking up a clipboard from the table at the side of his bed and flipping through the pages.

"I am?" Lucas asked, staring up at her in surprise. He'd expected at least an overnight stay – a proposition that wasn't entirely unappealing given how tired and ill he still felt.

"You are," Westphalen answered. She put back the clipboard and moved closer to the side of his bed, her smile disappearing. "We're evacuating again, Lucas."

"What?" he said, bolting upright in the bed. The sudden movement prompted a bout of coughing that took a minute to overcome. Finally, after several deep breaths and a long gulp of water, he recovered and turned back to the doctor again. "We're really abandoning the seaQuest again? Why?"

Westphalen frowned, looking deep in thought for a moment.

"The scientists studying the lava formation believe there could be a recurrence of that split in the ocean floor," she said carefully. "The UEO is transporting several nuclear bombs to the area and will use those to permanently close the hole. But in the meantime, Captain Bridger is just taking a precaution and evacuating all but a handful of the crew. You and I are on the last shuttle out, and it leaves in an hour."

Lucas sat quietly for a moment, staring hard at Westphalen. He couldn't shake the impression that she was holding something back, but he nodded and moved to get out of bed.

"So I should start packing," he said, pushing back the blankets and trying to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

"Not so fast," she said, laying a hand on his arm. "First, change into these," she said, handing him jeans and a sweatshirt. "And then you can leave with Lieutenant Krieg."

"I don't need a babysitter," Lucas grumbled.

"This from the boy who couldn't remember to take two tablets for his fever."

"I'm not a boy," he said.

"Fine. Young man," she consented. "But boy or not, you're not leaving here without Lieutenant Krieg. Doctor's orders. He'll help with the packing."

Westphalen ignored Lucas when he swore unintelligibly under his breath. She slid curtains around his bed to give him some privacy while he changed his clothes. To Lucas' chagrin, he soon was forced to admit that he might need Krieg's help after all. A wave of intense dizziness assailed him as he stood up from the bed to put on his jeans, and he immediately sat down again and closed his eyes until the room decided to stop spinning. He couldn't believe how weak he felt. His legs seemed barely able to hold his weight. He even found it difficult to just raise his arms over his head to take off the gown he was wearing and pull on the sweatshirt. By the time he was done dressing, he was sweating and breathless. Krieg showed up just as Lucas was trying to figure out how he would put on his shoes.

"Here, let me," Krieg said, and to Lucas' great embarrassment, the officer bent down and slid his shoes on. Lucas would have swatted him away and insisted on doing it himself, but he was too tired to bother.

"Thanks," he said when Krieg was done.

"No problem. You ready?"

"Yeah, I think so," Lucas said, and dropped once more to his feet. He wavered slightly, but managed to fight off the dizziness this time. Krieg gripped his arm to steady him, and together they walked out of the med bay.

By the time they had made it back to his quarters, Lucas felt drained of what little energy he had left. He fell into the chair in front of his computer and struggled with a brief but painful coughing fit, then closed his eyes and leaned his forehead into his hands. Despite his scrawny build and tendency to skip meals and sleep, he hadn't been a particularly sickly child and he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually been ill. The constant exhaustion was starting to become annoying.

"How do you ever find anything in this room?" Krieg called from behind him. Distracted by his miserable state, Lucas had almost forgotten Krieg was even in the room with him. "It'll take an hour just to find your shoes in this mess."

"I can't believe I'm being lectured by the guy who kept raw beef in his sock drawer," Lucas groaned.

"At least I keep my socks in a drawer," Krieg said, dangling a sock in front of Lucas' face.

"Hey, this one's clean," Lucas said, snatching the sock from Krieg.

"How can you tell if you don't smell it?" Krieg asked, wrinkling his nose.

"The clean ones are on the floor. The dirty ones go behind the bed."

"What a system," Krieg muttered. "Look, we should probably get started packing you up. Westphalen will be out for blood if you're late for the shuttle."

"Yeah, all right," Lucas said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He stood up and instantly felt light-headed, black dots dancing before his eyes. He blindly reached out a hand to steady himself with something solid.

"Whoa, not so fast," Krieg said, jumping to Lucas' side and helping him ease back into the chair. "You okay there?"

"Just a little dizzy," Lucas said faintly. "This sucks."

"I know," Krieg sympathized, squeezing Lucas' shoulder. "Well, why don't I do the packing and you can just order me around."

Lucas rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the offer, but as long as you're doing the manual labor I've got some files on my computer I need to upload. With the memorial service coming up I might not-" He stopped suddenly. The memorial service. His father. Between the fever and his short trip to the med bay and now the evacuation, he'd forgotten about his father.

"Not what?" Krieg asked.

"Huh?"

"With the memorial coming up you might not…" Krieg prompted him.

Confused, Lucas looked over his shoulder at Krieg, who was stuffing a flannel shirt into the bag. Krieg noticed him staring and stopped packing for a moment.

"You all right?"

"Yeah," Lucas said slowly. Krieg shrugged and resumed packing.

Lucas turned back to his computer. Out of habit, he checked his mail first. There were four new messages: one from his mother, one from a former colleague of his father's, one from an old family friend, and, to Lucas' surprise, another message from the prankster pretending to be his father. He opened that one first, grabbing a pen from the top of his desk and absently spinning it around his fingers.

__

Lucas,

I understand your skepticism. I know it's hard to believe that I survived the explosion. But I promise you, it really is me and I really am alive and well. To prove it to you, I have included with this message a picture of us that I used to keep in my office.

Please write back when you get this.

Love,

Dad

Lucas stared hard at the screen. His heart was racing. He saw that there was something attached to the message, but he felt strangely apprehensive about opening it. His hand shaking, he dropped the pen on the floor.

"Everything okay over there?" Lucas had forgotten again that he wasn't alone in the room.

He didn't answer the question. "Ben, can you do me a favor?" Lucas asked instead. He needed some privacy.

"I'm not already doing you a favor?"

"No, er, yeah," Lucas stammered. "I, um, I think I left my watch in med bay. Do you mind going back to look for it?"

"Sure, we can stop by on our way to the launch bay," Krieg said, picking up more clothes for the duffel bag.

"I kind of need it now," Lucas said, thinking fast. "It, um, well, it was a gift from my dad."

He felt guilty lying to Krieg, but he needed to be alone, and now.

"Yeah, sure," Krieg said, and Lucas winced a bit at the sympathy on his face. "I'll be right back. And don't touch that bag while I'm gone."

"Thanks," Lucas said, watching as Krieg walked out.

As soon as he'd left, Lucas read the message again, his eyes locking on the file that was attached to the note. Almost reluctantly, he opened it. Sure enough, it was a picture of Lucas and his father. He recognized it immediately.

He hadn't often been inside his father's office, but the few times father and son had talked over a vid-link Lucas had noted the framed photo his father kept on the table behind his desk. Lucas hated that photo. It had been taken just before he had joined the seaQuest. Lucas had won a prestigious grant for his vo-corder research, and his father had arrived, late, at the presentation ceremony to smile for pictures and tell his son he was being shipped off to sea.

Lucas gaped at the screen. This message was not from a prankster. It was from his father. His father was alive.

For an absurd moment, Lucas almost laughed out loud. It all seemed so ridiculous. It didn't make any sense. Bridger had told him there were no survivors. The seaQuest had been monitoring the area for hours and surely would have seen a shuttle or escape pod leave. 

But maybe, Lucas thought, just maybe, there was a way. He grasped onto that thought, wrestling with it in his mind like he might a complicated equation or a computer virus.

Leaning back in his chair, Lucas plucked another pen from his desk and nibbled at it thoughtfully. He tried to imagine his father's escape, how it might have happened. The biggest mystery was how a shuttle had managed to avoid the seaQuest's sensor equipment. The WSKRS were nearly infallible, the most sensitive instruments of their kind in existence. It just didn't seem possible. Lucas frowned in concentration, trying to figure out the puzzle.

The extreme heat from the lava had been wreaking havoc on the outer skin of the submarine. It was possible that the thermal energy had produced enough distortion to throw the WSKRS offline too, at least temporarily. If the shuttle had left during a window when the WSKRS weren't fully functional, it was possible that it could have escaped unnoticed. It wasn't likely, he admitted. But the circumstances had been far from ideal that day. And Shan had been manning the WSKRS – not his field of expertise. If Ortiz had been monitoring the WSKRS as usual, surely he would have caught any malfunctions and fixed them immediately. But Shan, well, it was possible he could have missed something.

Still, once the shuttle hit land the UEO should have found it. Lucas supposed that his father easily could have disabled the locator beacon in a shuttle, thereby keeping it from drawing UEO attention. If the UEO wasn't looking for a shuttle, if they believed that everyone had died in the explosion, then it was possible they hadn't found an abandoned shuttle on an isolated beach. Again, not likely, but possible.

Lucas was a firm believer in possibilities. His life so far, his science and his computers, all of it stretched the boundaries of what most people considered impossible fantasy. No one had believed a dolphin could talk, but he was making it happen. He'd seen aliens and studied geological events most people would never even hear of. After everything he'd seen, he could certainly believe his own father was alive. He had to.

Lucas squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed a hand over his face. It all seemed so utterly unbelievable. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were shaking. He also felt like throwing up, but that could have just been the flu.

He looked up at the computer monitor again, the letter sitting there, looking so innocent in the middle of the screen. His father was expecting him to write back, but Lucas couldn't even begin to figure out what he would say. "Hey, Dad, glad you're okay," just didn't seem to fit the mood, but it was the only thing that came to mind right now. He hadn't even started to mourn his father, and now he was supposed to celebrate his return to life? Lucas shook his head slowly, exacerbating the headache that was pounding between his ears. He was so tired, his eyes itchy with exhaustion.

Lucas leaned back in his chair and pulled his hands through his hair in frustration. He was running out of time. Krieg would be back at any moment. Lucas thrust forward in his chair, slipping the pen into his mouth, and reached his hands toward the keyboard.

__

Dad,

Lucas stopped. Already it felt bizarre just to type the word. He just didn't know what to say. He'd been so angry with his father just before he'd "died." Now it felt as though that anger and hurt had all but disappeared, but he wasn't sure if it could be that easy. He finally settled for a simple approach.

__

Dad,

I believe you.

Please write back and tell me what happened. I won't tell anyone about you, but I need to know that you're really okay. How did you escape without anyone noticing? What's going on that is so dangerous?

I love you too.

Lucas

He stared at the screen. The note seemed far too short, but it would have to do. They were the only words he could find for now. Lucas read over his brief note several more times. He hit the send button just as Krieg came back.

"I'm sorry, Lucas, I couldn't find your watch. It must be around here somewhere."

Lucas stared at him for a moment, confused, then gave Krieg a short, embarrassed laugh.

"It was in my desk," he said, holding up his wrist to show Krieg the watch that he'd actually been wearing the whole time. "Sorry."

Krieg laughed with him. "That's okay," he said. "I actually got to watch Westphalen crawling on hands and knees trying to find it under your bed. There's a sight I probably won't get to see again."

Lucas laughed again, and it occurred to him that despite feeling sick and exhausted, and knowing that he was evacuating his home, a warm relief had swept over him. He felt almost relaxed, and more than a little bit excited. With a small smile, Lucas turned fully around to his computer, remembering what he'd initially set out to do. He really did have to upload some files before they evacuated the seaQuest. He and Krieg worked in silence for several minutes when Lucas heard the officer swear suddenly.

"Sorry," Krieg said sheepishly when Lucas turned around. "We're late. Westphalen really is gonna kill me."

"Better you than me," Lucas grinned.

"What makes you think she won't kill you too?"

"You're the babysitter," Lucas said with a shrug. "The babysitters always get blamed. Trust me on this one."

"Not this time, kid," Krieg said, stuffing another handful of clothes into the duffel bag. "Did I miss anything?"

Lucas turned away from his computer to do a quick survey of his room. All of his important personal items were still packed in another bag from the first evacuation. It looked like Krieg had fit most of his clothes into the duffel.

"Nope, you got it all," Lucas said.

"I'm nothing if not thorough," Krieg said with a proud grin, and Lucas groaned. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

"Just another minute," Lucas said, staring hard at the computer monitor as though that would make the files upload faster. He watched as the files flew by in a rush of undistinguishable letters and numbers, impatiently drumming his fingers on the desktop.

"Lucas-"

"Almost there," he said. Lucas noted in frustration that one particularly large file seemed to be taking longer than the rest to upload. Then he saw the name of the file, and he actually gasped in surprise. Frodo.

It had been at least 10 years since his father had called him by that nickname.

"Something wrong?" Krieg asked. Lucas jumped in surprise at his voice.

"Um, no," he said, quickly recovering from the shock that had frozen him in front of the computer. "No, it's fine. Everything's uploaded."

"Good. Let's go."

Part of Lucas wanted to refuse. He didn't know of any files called "Frodo" on his hard drive, and Lucas knew every file on his computer. Which meant that this one must have been placed there, and fairly recently. Which meant it could be from his father. Lucas had to know what was in that file, and he had to know right now. If he left, it would likely be at least a day or two before he had access to a reasonably private computer and got a chance to download the file.

"Seriously, Lucas, we've got to go now."

Lucas took one more desperate, longing look at his computer. He didn't have a choice. He turned off the computer and stood up.

"Let's get out of here," he said. With one more quick glance around his room to make sure nothing important was left behind, Lucas grabbed a coat from the back of his chair and followed Krieg out of his room.

xxxXXXxxx

Bridger may have put up a resigned and accepting front for the visiting scientists, but the truth was, there was no way in hell he was diving his submarine into the floor of the ocean without a fight. Or at least looking at some other alternatives. In fact, he had assigned no less than a dozen of the seaQuest's own scientists – many of them among the most esteemed geologists in the world – to come up with a solution, any solution, that would save this boat. But with almost all of his crew now evacuated and just a few hours before Dr. Wu's worst prediction was supposed to come true, no one had any answers. At least, none that didn't require sending the seaQuest to an untimely death. And so Bridger was back on his bridge, practically pacing a rut into the grilled floor and ignoring the concerned squeals coming from Darwin's tank.

"Why hasn't Darwin been evacuated yet?" Bridger barked to no one in particular.

"The last shuttle leaves in 20 minutes, sir," Ford answered from directly behind the captain, startling Bridger with his closeness. "Darwin will be on it."

Bridger turned to face the commander and nodded once. Ford was worried. Bridger could read the concern in the way his eyebrows were knotted together and his eyes kept darting around the bridge, as though he were making sure no one else was watching. He wanted to say something, and Bridger knew exactly it was. The captain sighed deeply and sat in his chair.

"What's on your mind, Commander?"

Ford spared one more cautious glance around the bridge before he stepped closer to the captain's chair, leaning over Bridger so he could talk without being overheard.

"Are you really going to go through with this, sir?"

"I certainly hope not," Bridger answered, lowering his own voice in deference to Ford. There really was no reason to keep anything from the rest of the bridge crew, though. They all knew what the plan was. "Commander, I have every intention of doing anything in my power to save this submarine. But if destroying her is the only way to save the planet, and at this point that's the way it looks, then I'll do my job. And I expect the same from you."

"Of course, Captain," Ford said, looking stunned at the suggestion that he might not be up to task. "I never-"

Bridger waved a placating hand. "I know. I know I can count on you. Let's just keep hoping that Dr. Wu is as bad at predicting major geological disturbances as he is at reporting for routine health exams."

Ford laughed, and for the moment the spell of tension was broken. The commander drifted away from the captain's chair to check in with the crew scanning the ocean floor, and Bridger was again left alone with his thoughts. He stared quietly out the main viewscreen, frankly awed by how completely innocuous the scene in front of him appeared. The water was calm, the ocean floor appeared stable. The only sign that anything traumatic had happened a few days ago was a pile of rubble; the remains of the underwater facility itself had been blown to pieces or buried under tons of rock.

And yet, bubbling under this peaceful scene was a ferocious river that could, literally, steal Bridger's dream right out from under him. The captain had been faced with dozens of similar risks in the past, times when he thought he might lose his boat. But always those situations had come up suddenly, when the danger to his crew, the people he had come to know and love, had been more pressing, and so the seaQuest herself was something he could hardly spare a worry over. But now the people were safe, at least most of them, and it was the boat he was afraid of losing. And here he sat, with hours to prepare for that loss. It was agonizing, he decided. Almost unconsciously, Bridger reached out and lay two gentle hands on the console in front of him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Almost as if in response, a blinding flare of red light filled the main viewscreen, and the seaQuest shuddered. The end was about to begin.

xxxXXXxxx

In the shuttle, Lucas' first inclination that the seaQuest was in trouble came with a sudden jolt that shook him out of an impromptu nap. After Krieg had escorted him to the shuttle bay, Lucas had wandered to the back of the shuttle, still sick and weary beyond belief, and tucked himself into a corner where he rested his head on his balled-up jacket and dozed quietly. With that first jolt, awareness had assaulted his tired mind and he suddenly heard Krieg shouting outside that they had to leave, and right away. The murmurs of panic that Lucas had barely noticed in the shuttle cabin suddenly grew to excited and furious chatter. Lucas woke up enough to ask the ensign sitting next to him what was going on.

"I guess it's true," the young ensign said, clutching to the underside of his seat to ride out a roll of turbulence. "I guess they're really gonna do it. I just wish they'd hurry and get us out of here."

"Do what? What's true?" Lucas asked, his voice rising.

"The captain's gonna destroy the seaQuest," the ensign answered. "They say it's our only choice."

Lucas didn't bother to wait and find out who "they" were. He bolted out of his seat, immediately stumbling from both the unnatural shaking that was rocking the shuttle and his own dizziness. Not one to be deterred, he fumbled his way to the front of the shuttle cabin, where Westphalen was frantically flipping through the pages of a clipboard.

"Doctor, what's going on?" Lucas demanded when he'd reached her side.

"Lucas! You need to sit down!"

"Is it true the captain's going to crash the seaQuest?"

Westphalen spared him a brief, searching glance before nodding. "I don't have time to explain everything now, Lucas, but yes, that's exactly what he's doing. Now sit down!"

"But-"

"Lucas, I mean it. We're leaving right now!" She squeezed his shoulder briefly and nudged him back toward his seat.

"What about Darwin?" Lucas asked.

"We've got him!" called back an ensign from the front of the cabin.

"Lucas-" Westphalen started.

"Okay," he said, shrugging off her hand on his arm and stalking back to his seat, where he all but fell into the lap of his neighboring ensign when another tremor shook the boat. "Sorry," he muttered, and crunched himself back into his corner.

Lucas was fuming, to say the least. He was sick and tired and now they were treating him like a mere child – lying to him and mollycoddling him.

And the worst part was that he was scared to death.

xxxXXXxxx

"Shit!"

Ford's undignified but not at all inappropriate swear rang across the bridge as the crew, almost in one motion, raised hands to shield their eyes from the blinding red light that filled the viewscreen. As suddenly as the light came, it disappeared, replaced by a violent rumble that swept through the seaQuest like a shiver through her spine. This shiver rocked the submarine severely, and everyone on the bridge was forced to latch onto whatever solid support they could find to keep from toppling over.

"Damn. It's early," Ford yelled, catching Bridger's eye from the far side of the bridge. The captain nodded.

"I know," he called back. "You know what to do."

Indeed, Ford and everyone else on the bridge knew exactly what they had to do. With no more time for drawn-out farewells to his beloved boat, Bridger gave his console one more affectionate pat and then sprang to his feet.

"Shan, join Krieg in the shuttle bay and make sure that last shuttle gets out of here now."

"Aye, sir," Shan called, and raced off the bridge.

With the last shuttle off, that would mean the seaQuest was left with a total crew of 20. They would be the last ones to leave the boat, using the same shuttle that had transported the scientists to the seaQuest a few days ago. Bridger would be leaving in the Stinger – a matter that Lucas likely would bitterly challenge once this whole mess was behind them. He could just hear the whining now: "But I should've been the one to pilot her!"

Bridger smiled tightly at this thought. He'd have plenty of time to deal with Lucas and all of his manifest frustrations later. Right now, he had a boat to crash.

"Okay, people, you all know what we have to do," Bridger called out to his crew. A few eyes swerved in his direction, but everyone stayed on task. "O'Neill, Ortiz, secure your stations and get your people to the shuttle bay. Crocker, you've got 10 minutes to make sure no one else is left onboard." Ordinarily such a precaution wouldn't have been necessary, but with disaster looming even closer than anyone had expected, he wanted to be sure.

"Aye, Captain," Crocker said with a short nod, and he gathered four security officers for one more cursory survey of the seaQuest.

"Hitchcock, keep her steady," Bridger yelled when another jolt shook the submarine and he fell sharply to one side.

"We're trying, sir," Hitchcock called back, never turning away from her own console and barking soft but stern orders to two nearby crewmembers.

Ford fell hard against Bridger's station when another sharp blow hit the boat just as he was making his way to the captain. The commander winced with the impact but immediately turned wide, serious eyes to Bridger.

"Are we really going through with this, sir?"

"I don't see how we have any other choice," Bridger said matter-of-factly, meeting Ford's intense stare. "Unless you have any last-minute solutions you've been holding out on me."

Ford shook his head, clutching onto the captain's console to ride out another wave of trembling in the boat.

"I didn't think so. Come on, let's do this."

There was no hesitation on Bridger's part as he reached beneath his shirt for the keys that hung around his neck. Following his lead, Ford sighed and did the same, and they leaned together over the console to arm the seaQuest's weapons.

"Captain, we can't hold her much longer," Hitchcock called from up front.

"Just give us two more minutes, Commander," he yelled back.

The weapons ready, Bridger grasped Ford's forearm and offered his second-in-command a resigned smile.

"You served her well, Commander," he said. "Now get out of here. Give me a minute to relieve Hitchcock, and then you get that shuttle away from here as fast as possible. I'll take care of the rest."

"Captain, you can't-"

"Yeah, I can," Bridger interrupted. "Now go."

Ford looked dazed for a moment, then nodded firmly and called out to the remaining crewmembers to follow him off the bridge.

"Be careful, sir," he said, and then offered a barely successful grin. "I'll see you in a few minutes."

"That you will, Commander."

With just himself and Hitchcock remaining on the bridge, the captain secured his own station and rose unsteadily to his feet, the boat now tipping dangerously from side to side. He fumbled to the front of the bridge until he was clinging to the chair where Hitchcock was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to control the boat.

"I'll take over from here," he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. Hitchcock seemed prepared to argue over the dismissal, but quickly nodded once and moved aside.

"She's rough, sir," Hitchcock warned. "It's a lot more chaotic out there this time than last time. I don't know how long you'll be able to control her."

"It doesn't need to be long," Bridger said through a grimace, grappling with the controls.

"Good luck, sir," Hitchcock said. In a rare and sudden gesture, she gripped his shoulder and squeezed tightly. Brigder risked a look away from his console to give her a grateful smile.

"Thanks, Commander. Now get out of my sight."

And he was alone. Bridger fought for control of the boat for an agonizing eight minutes. By the time he intercepted the all-clear signal from the shuttle with the last of his crew, his arms were practically aching from the physical strain of steering the ship. Once they were safely away, he set the seaQuest – his dream, his pet project, hell, in some ways his best friend – on a course that would crash her into the ocean floor in 10 minutes. At least, he hoped he had 10 minutes.

Bridger leapt from his seat and sprinted off the bridge, fighting to stay on his feet in the turbulence. As he ran, he didn't spare even one backward glance. He'd already said goodbye.

AN: Many thanks to the keen-eyed Nodi for catching my misuse of the word "delusional" in the previous chapter. I hate mistakes like that!


	5. Chapter 5

Lucas removed his sunglasses to rub at his dry eyes, sparing a long look into the brilliant blue sky before squinting and sliding the shades back on. Somewhere in the distance, he heard bells chiming from a clock tower. Already the memorial had been going on for two hours. He sighed softly and fidgeted in his seat, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Not for the first time that day, he wished he'd put up a bigger fight when his mother had insisted he wear a suit and tie.

It was an unnaturally warm day for this time of year, even by southern Florida standards, and the spell of heat was wearing on the large crowd gathered for his father's memorial service. Around him, Lucas could see those mourners unfortunate enough to be standing shift on their feet and check their wristwatches. Men dabbed at the sweat beading on their foreheads and women used the programs handed out before the service as fans to stir the heavy air. At his left, Lucas' mom plucked uncomfortably at her blouse; his stepfather loosened his tie, and Lucas was repulsed to see the sweat dripping down the man's thick neck. Lucas flinched and turned away.

A soft touch on his shoulder drew Lucas' attention to his right. He looked up and saw Bridger studying him. The captain raised his eyebrows in question – was he all right? – and Lucas nodded slowly in return, turning his attention back to the service. A white-haired old man, apparently his father's doctoral advisor from MIT, had been droning on for more than 20 minutes now.

The day so far was progressing painfully slowly, especially compared to the whirlwind of activity that had swallowed up the previous two days.

Once his shuttle had safely reached shore, Lucas and the rest of the crew had been ushered immediately to UEO barracks, where they'd waited impatiently for word of the seaQuest and the rest of her crew. It had seemed like hours, but it must have been no more than 45 minutes before Bridger himself had arrived at the barracks to great cheers and hugs, which quickly had turned into cries of dismay when they had learned for certain that their boat was gone.

Lucas hadn't had time to rejoice or grieve with the rest of the crew. He'd been lead to a sickbay, where he had then spent the next 12 hours mostly sleeping before joining a dozen or so other crewmembers on a UEO-chartered flight to Florida for the memorial service. After more sleep, more doctors and a brief reunion with his mother, that was where he was stuck now: pretending to mourn a father who wasn't really dead.

He sighed deeply and shifted once again in his chair, grimacing when he felt the sweat pooling behind his knees and making his trousers cling to his legs. Why did it have to be so hot?

For the past two hours – really, for the past two days – Lucas had been running circles in his own mind, a million questions racing around his head and almost no answers. He didn't know where his father was or why he was in danger. In two days, he hadn't even been able to check for more messages from his father, much less download his files and find out what the mysterious "Frodo" contained. He smiled when he thought of the name. True enough, good memories of his father were few and far between. In fact, Lucas had immediately rejected an offer to speak at his father's own memorial, and not because he knew the man wasn't really dead, but because he knew he would have nothing to say. He'd barely even known the man, and of the little he did know, not much of it was very pleasant.

The memorial dragged on, politicians and world-renowned scientists alike wrenching tidbits of their memories with Dr. Wolenczak to share with the increasingly restless crowd. As with any dignified memorial service, the memories were mostly trite and occasionally amusing, in a bland sort of way. But even as Lucas frowned and grimaced through the service, he found himself swept up in memories of his own, good and bad. Lazy afternoons reading "Young Physicist" magazines together, or staying up well past his bedtime to discuss the supernovas and distant galaxies that his father promised were in the dark sky. And then the countless disappointments: cancelled outings, forgotten birthdays, abandoned promises.

Behind his sunglasses, Lucas closed his eyes against the tears that were starting to form. 'He's not dead,' Lucas reminded himself. 'Think about his note. Think about where he is now. Think about Frodo.'

Lucas allowed a soft, bittersweet smile to cross his face at that thought.

When he had been just 4 years old, really far too young for even a child with his IQ to take an interest in true literature, his father had started reading "The Hobbit" to him, and later "The Lord of the Rings." For nearly three months it had been a nightly treat for father and son. Before long, his father had been fondly calling Lucas his Frodo. His smart little hobbit.

Before they could finish the books, his father had won his first major funding for what would later become the World Power Project. The money had come from a private corporation that demanded nonstop work from its top scientists. Lucas had been left to read by himself. It had been a near-impossible task, the deep philosophy and archaic writing style confusing to such a young mind, but Lucas had forced himself to finish. He was Frodo, after all. He was the hero. He had to know where his future lay.

A soft nudge at Lucas' side drew him out of his memories, and he blinked at his surroundings. The memorial was over. The crowd was humming and milling about in the bright afternoon sunlight.

"You okay?" Bridger asked, his voice soft with concern.

Lucas blinked again and nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking."

Bridger reached around and gave Lucas a brief hug from the side, squeezing his shoulder before standing up and putting on his own sunglasses. Lucas rose and turned slowly around, gazing over the massive crowd. The memorial service had been held in the grassy glade of a UEO amphitheater, and there must have been at least 500 people in attendance. Lucas recognized almost none of them, save for the handful of people who were now standing nearby.

"Looks like Dad's a pretty popular guy," he muttered.

"What was that?" Bridger asked.

"Nothing."

They stood silent for a moment, then Bridger saw Noyce waving to him from the front of the amphitheater. He lifted his hand in return and gave Lucas an appraising glance.

"Hey, will you be okay for a moment? Looks like Noyce wants a word."

"Yeah, no problem," Lucas said. Bridger patted his arm then strode purposely across the grass, expertly weaving his way among the throngs of people. Lucas watched him walk away and then glanced at his mother, who darted a quick look in his direction and offered a sympathetic smile. She had been pulled into conversation with Aunt Linda, his father's only surviving relative other than Lucas.

Lucas gave his mother a small smile in return then turned slowly east, where he could just barely see the ocean sparkling in the distance. He squinted and imagined he could see tiny sailboats skimming the water.

"Excuse me."

Lucas jumped slightly at the feminine voice and looked back over his shoulder.

"I don't know if you remember me-" she started.

"Jordan Mathers. You were my father's assistant."

Of course he remembered her. He'd spent more time talking to this woman than his own father over the past two years, during countless unsuccessful attempts to speak to the man. She looked different now. Her frizzy blond hair, usually falling down to her shoulders, was now pulled back neatly from her face. She was wearing a crisp black suit and had apparently left behind the tacky gold jewelry he usually saw on her. But she still wore the same sad smile that gave away the immense pity she felt for her boss's son. Lucas cringed slightly to see it.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," she said, and reached out to squeeze his hand.

"Thank you," he said, and casually shifted his hand into his trouser pocket. They stood in awkward silence for a moment.

"Lucas," she began, her words faltering as if she was uncertain of what to say, "maybe it's not my place to say anything, but I think I knew your father as well as anyone, and, well, he loved you very much. Despite, you know, despite what you may think, or the way he acted."

Lucas didn't respond for a moment, caught off guard by the frank comments. He shifted his gaze to the grass and his scuffed dress shoes. "I know," he said finally.

"He tried to reach you, before, well…" she trailed off.

"He did reach me," Lucas said, looking up.

For a split second she looked alarmed, and then her face cleared and she breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad to hear that. I wasn't sure. It was very important to him, in the end."

"It was important to me too," Lucas said softly. Mathers reached out with a tentative hand as if to stroke his arm, then seemed to think better of it and folded her arms over her chest.

"Lucas, this may seem a little strange, but did Lawrence-"

"Lucas, are you ready to go?" asked his mom, who had suddenly appeared at his side. "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting?"

"No, not at all. I need to be going anyway," Mathers said, reaching out to shake Lucas' hand and offering another sad smile. "It was good to see you, Lucas. I really am sorry."

"Thank you."

"Who was that?" his mom asked when Mathers had slipped away.

"Just a friend of Dad's."

"I didn't think he had any friends," his mom muttered, rifling through her purse now.

"Mom…"

"I'm sorry, Lucas. That was in poor taste," she said, pulling a tube of lipstick out of her purse and swearing mildly when she opened it and saw it was melted. "Are you ready to go? We were going to grab some lunch before heading back to the hotel."

Lucas sent a withering look toward his stepfather, who had already lost his jacket and tie. It had been four or five years since Lucas had last seen him. He was a burly man with thick arms and a heavy beard, and he was sweating profusely. Lucas was glad to see his stepdad looking immensely uncomfortable in the heat; the man had no right being at the memorial anyway.

"Did you have to bring him?" Lucas said quietly, instead of answering his mother's question. "He doesn't even want to be here."

His mom opened her mouth to respond – most likely with some sort of useless defense of her husband – but before she could say anything the captain joined the group.

"Hello," Bridger said, offering a small grin to Lucas before turning to his mom. "You must be Lucas' mother."

"Cynthia Carver. You're Captain Bridger?"

"Call me Nathan," Bridger said, and offered his hand.

"This is my husband, Rick," she said, and Lucas' stepfather leaned forward, grunting as he shook Bridger's hand. Lucas scowled at him.

"It's nice to meet you both, although I wish it could be under better circumstances," Bridger said.

"Of course," his mother agreed. "Lawrence and I didn't always get along, but, well, it's a shame, to see him go now."

"Yes, it is," Bridger said. "But you know, your son has held up well, under the circumstances. You have a lot to be proud of. He's really a fine young man."

"Thank you. We're very proud of him," Cynthia said, rubbing Lucas' shoulder and smiling when he blushed. "But we've missed him this past year. It's hard having him away all the time."

Lucas laughed shortly at that, and his mom gave him a stern look. Certainly his mother couldn't still believe that Rick actually wanted him around.

"I can imagine it's difficult for you," Bridger said, and opened his mouth to say more when Aunt Linda burst into the group.

"Oh Lucas, poor dear, how are you?" she gushed, and swept him into her plump arms, squeezing his face on her soft shoulders. When she'd nearly hugged the life out of him, she grasped his arms and held him back, treating him to an appraising stare. "It's just so awful, isn't it? I'm so, so sorry."

"Thanks, Aunt Linda," Lucas said, and grunted when she pulled him back in for another hug.

"You know, it's all up to you now," she said, patting the back of his head none-too-gently with broad sweeps of her sweaty palms. "You're the last one, the last Wolenczak. You've got to carry on the name and do it justice. Make your father proud, Lucas."

"Please, Linda, he's already made Lawrence prouder than any father could be," his mother said, rifling through her purse again. This time she came up with a cigarette and a lighter shaped like the state of New York.

"Of course, of course," Aunt Linda said, flapping her hands in a dismissal. "He knows what I mean, don't you, hon?"

"Yeah," Lucas said, nearly panting as he finally forced his way out of his aunt's hug.

"Well, I suppose he'll be moving back to Buffalo, then," Aunt Linda said, turning her gaze to Lucas' mom.

"Yes." His mom reached over and squeezed Lucas' shoulder, then frowned as her lighter failed for the third time. "I can hardly wait to get him home."

Rick snorted at her side. His mother gave Rick a nervous glance, but everyone else ignored him.

"Thank God you're finally getting him off that boat. That was no place for a child," Aunt Linda said.

"I'm not-"

"When are you leaving?" Aunt Linda continued over Lucas' protest.

"Tonight, actually. Rick has to get back to work, and we want to get Lucas settled as quickly as possible."

"Good, good," Aunt Linda nodded approvingly, her gaze shifting as something across the lawn caught her attention. "Oh, there's Ned, Lawrence's old roommate. I really should say hi. Don't any of you leave without saying goodbye."

Without so much as a backward glance, Aunt Linda was marching across the lawn. As soon as she was out of earshot, Lucas and his mother burst into giggles.

"She hasn't changed a bit," his mother gasped between laughs.

"Thank God she didn't kiss me," Lucas added.

"Not yet! Don't forget, there's still goodbye," his mom said, and Lucas groaned.

Rick seemed oblivious to their sudden outbreak in laughter, but Bridger stared at them in utter confusion.

"She's Dad's half-sister. A complete nutball," Lucas explained. "It's weird, I never thought she liked Dad all that much."

"She liked me better than him," his mother agreed.

"Mom, are we really leaving tonight?" Lucas asked, remembering what his mother had just said.

She stole another glance at her husband, then looked ruefully at Lucas. "There's really no reason for us to stay."

"But I was hoping to hang around for a few days, say goodbye."

"Actually," Bridger interrupted, clearing his throat, "I wanted to talk to you about that." He waited until Lucas and his mother were facing him before continuing. "I really had wanted to talk to Lucas about it first, but since I have you both here…Well, I've got a proposition for you."

Lucas rose his eyebrows, his curiosity piqued.

"A proposition?" his mom asked.

"You see, there's the simple matter of building a new submarine," Bridger said. "With the seaQuest gone, the UEO has basically given us permission to build a new boat from scratch. The design phase is starting almost immediately. In fact, there are already dozens of engineers coming up with the initial schematics. This boat will easily be the most advanced vessel in the history of mankind."

"That's fascinating, Captain Bridger, but what does that have to do with my son?"

"Well, Lucas has been invited to join the design team."

"Really?" Lucas said, his voice pitched with awe and delight.

"Captain, please. I know my son is smart, but surely you must have professionals better suited for such an important project."

"Actually, not really," Bridger said. "Lucas' computer networking skills are basically unmatched. He would be a vital asset to the program. Secretary General Noyce himself has requested that Lucas join us."

His mother sighed at this, and looked warily at Lucas before speaking.

"But he's only 17," she said. "His father may have encouraged him to push himself nonstop, but it's time for my son to have a break. It's time for him to be with his family and relax, act his age for awhile."

"Mom, please," Lucas said. "This is the opportunity of a lifetime. This is what I've always dreamed about, helping build something from the ground up. I want to do this."

"I don't think so, Lucas," his mom said. You're too young. Where would you live? How would you take care of yourself?"

"He'd live with me," Bridger answered.

Mother and son both gaped at him.

"I couldn't ask you to do that," his mother said.

"You don't have to. I'm offering."

"I don't know," she hedged, gazing uncertainly at her husband. "I was looking forward to having Lucas at home again, just the three of us."

"Mom," Lucas began, and darted a serious look at his stepfather, who was standing with his back to the group and ignoring their conversation. Even without an offer to live with Bridger, Lucas had no intention of moving back in with his mother as long as Rick was still around.

"We'd be fine," she said softly, taking Lucas' hand. "I promise."

Lucas frowned doubtfully. He'd heard such promises from her before. "Maybe," he said, glancing again at his stepfather, "but I want to stay here. I want to help build this submarine. It's important to me."

His mother finally sighed, and she leaned forward to touch his face.

"Okay," she said in resignation. "But I want you to come visit, and soon. I've missed you."

"I know, Mom. I've missed you too," Lucas said, and he pulled her into a hug. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she whispered, kissing his cheek before pulling away, her hands still grasping his shoulders. She turned on Bridger. "You had better take good care of my son."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Carver."

"No more of this flu," she said.

"I know."

"Or head injuries."

"Nope."

"Or hostage situations."

"No way."

"Or terrorist takeovers."

"I'll keep him safe."

"Or-"

"Mom!"

She laughed finally.

"You just keep him safe for me," she said. "I love him."

"I love you too, Mom."

xxxXXXxxx

"You actually live on an island."

Lucas stared at the captain in disbelief as Bridger drove a UEO sedan toward the ferry that would carry them to his house. It was nearing sunset, and the eastern sky was almost the same dusky gray as the ocean in front of them. In the distance, Lucas could see yellow light shining from a handful of homes on a tiny island that seemed barely as wide as the seaQuest was long.

"You thought I was lying?" Bridger asked with a chuckle, stopping the car before the ferry gate.

"Well, no, not really," Lucas said. "I just figured you meant an island in the metaphorical sense. This is literally an island."

Bridger laughed again as Lucas continued to gape at the island that was about to become his home. When the gate came up on the ferry, Bridger eased the car forward and stopped once they were fully onboard. This would be the last ferry of the evening, and theirs was the only car on it. Once he'd turned off the engine, Bridger got out of the car and Lucas followed him, breathing deeply of the tangy breeze coming off the ocean.

"Well look at that! Nathan Bridger!" a voice boomed from behind them. "Wasn't sure I'd ever see you again."

"Skipper!" Bridger called back, a grin lighting up his face as he turned to greet the man. "You know I came back just to see you."

Lucas leaned on his side of the car and smiled lightly as Bridger and the man he called Skipper shared a vigorous handshake, grasping each other's forearms and laughing at the unexpected reunion. Skipper was a large man, with a belly that poured over his jeans and broad shoulders. Not much of his face was visible beneath a deep brown beard and shaggy hair that fell nearly to his shoulders and well into his eyes. Those eyes were warm beneath Skipper's crinkled brow as he turned an appraising glance toward Lucas.

"Picked up a stowaway on that fancy boat of yours, eh, Nathan?"

"Well, you know, we kept tossing him overboard but he kept swimming right back," Bridger said with a laugh even as Lucas treated him to a teasing glare. "Skipper, this is Lucas. Lucas, you're looking at the most talented seaman this side of the Atlantic. He taught me everything I know."

At this last comment, Skipper tipped his head back with great bellows of laughter, his hands grasping at his ample belly. His laughter was infectious, and soon Bridger and Lucas had joined him, albeit not quite as boisterously.

"You're a good man, Nathan," Skipper said, clasping the captain on a shoulder. "But I bet you're itching to get home. Let's get this boat going." He disappeared into the cabin of the ferry.

Lucas and Bridger walked around to the front of the car as the ferry's engine roared to life, and the captain pulled Lucas to his side with an arm around his shoulder, guiding him to the front of the boat so they could watch their approach to the island. For several minutes they stood in silence, Lucas leaning his elbows on the railing as he watched a few more lights wink to life on the island. Before long, they were gliding quietly across the ocean, the ferry cutting a rough line in the choppy water.

"So we have to take the ferry to work everyday?" Lucas asked, still staring ahead.

"Yep," Bridger said. "It only takes 10 minutes, but then it's another half hour to the labs where we'll be working."

"And we have to use that?" Lucas said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder to point at the UEO-issue sedan. It was an exceedingly boring car, Lucas had decided. He doubted it could even top 200 miles per hour.

"Well I'm not taking you to work on the back of my motorcycle everyday, if that's what you mean."

"You have a motorcycle?" Lucas stared in astonishment at the captain.

"I thought you knew that."

"Well, Ortiz said you did but I never believed him."

"What, you don't think I look like someone who'd ride a motorcycle?"

"Um, not exactly," Lucas hedged.

"You keep talking like that and I'll never let you ride it," Bridger teased.

"You'd let me ride it?"

"We'll see."

Lucas smiled at that, imagining himself speeding along on a motorcycle, maybe with a girl attached to his waist. He would definitely find a way to get on that ride sometime soon. After a moment he turned his attention back to the island, which was not much more than a dark, shadowy shape in the water as the afternoon light faded into evening.

"How many people live out there?" he asked.

Bridger thought for a moment. "There are five homes, I think," he said.

"Actually, it's nine now," Skipper said from behind them. "You haven't been back here in a long time."

"I guess not," Bridger said thoughtfully. "Nine. I haven't been gone that long, have I? I had no idea it'd become so crowded."

"Yeah, it's a regular suburb," Lucas muttered.

"Only four of them are occupied year-round," Skipper continued. "The rest are mostly winter folks."

"Are the Desmonds still breeding emus?" Bridger asked with a smile.

"You bet," Skipper said. "Best darn emu-burgers in the state, if you ask me."

Lucas tuned the men out as they continued to snicker over the island gossip, Skipper obviously more than happy to share news from the past several years. Lucas turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the first stars were starting to shine dully in the darkening sky. It was a clear night, and the moon was already low in the sky. Lucas yawned and lowered his chin into the palms of his hands.

It was still early, but it had been a long and exhausting day for Lucas. He'd been up since 6 a.m., when the doctor at the UEO hospital where Lucas had been recovering from the flu had woken him and told him he was being released. From there, he'd spent most of the morning with his mother and stepfather – never a good thing – until the memorial service. After that, he'd been forced to sit through a long, stressful lunch with his mom and stepfather, again, before going with them to the airport to say goodbye. His mother had cried then, much to Lucas' dismay, and he'd fought a long moment of guilt, wondering to himself if he was abandoning her, if he was being selfish for not returning home with her and preferring to stay with the captain. It was a ridiculous notion, he forced himself to acknowledge. It wasn't like his mother had been particularly supportive of his needs when he was growing up. She was still married to Rick, despite the way he'd treated Lucas years ago. Lucas knew he didn't owe his mom anything, and all things considered, he probably had every right to never want to speak to her again. But still, she was his mother, and he loved her. He never did like to see her cry.

With a bump and a splash of water, the ferry reached the island dock and Lucas was jolted out of his unhappy thoughts. He stood up and allowed a small smile when he saw the captain staring at him with some concern.

"We're here?" Lucas asked.

"We're here," Bridger confirmed, throwing another arm around Lucas' shoulders. "Let's get in the car."

It was a short drive to Bridger's house, which was less than a mile from the docks. The house was dark when they arrived, but even in the fading light Lucas could tell that this was not the tiny island cabin he'd been expecting. True, the home was by no means large, but it was beautifully constructed, with huge bay windows and redwood siding. As Bridger pulled the car into the driveway at the side of the house, Lucas saw that the back of the home opened directly onto a beach, with a short pier hopping out into the water. Lucas whistled appreciatively at the sight.

"Not bad," he said, and then eyed Bridger with teasing suspicion. "Just how much does a UEO captain make anyway?"

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to ask that?" Bridger said with a laugh. "Anyway, I'm not just any old UEO captain, you know."

Lucas laughed as he got out of the car, and they both grabbed their luggage from the back seat and headed inside. Outside, the air was already starting to cool with an evening breeze coming off the water, but inside Bridger's house it was still stiflingly hot and stuffy, both from the day's hot weather and years of being uninhabited. As Bridger gave Lucas a tour of the home, he opened every window until finally a cool, salty breeze was carried through the rooms. To Lucas' mild dismay, the only computer in the house was in a study that was adjacent to Bridger's bedroom. He'd need to get his own laptop soon if he wanted any privacy, and he'd been hoping to check for a message from his father later tonight.

At the far end of the house was the guest room that would now belong to Lucas. It was small and nearly bare of decoration, the walls painted a creamy white and a double bed shoved into the corner, but it had a giant window that looked out on the ocean. Next to the bed there was a desk next that doubled as a night table, complete with a lamp and an alarm clock that was blinking the wrong time. Lucas dumped his bags on the floor and immediately sat on the bed, running a hand through his hair and yawning.

"It's been a long day," Bridger commented as he reached into a closet and found sheets and blankets for the bed.

"Yeah," Lucas mumbled around another yawn.

"Are you hungry at all? We'll have to go shopping tomorrow, but I'm sure there's some food in the freezer."

"No, thanks," Lucas said. "All I really want to do is sleep."

Bridger glanced at his watch and laughed. "This from the kid that I've had to threaten with sedatives when he refused to stop working and get some sleep? It's not even 9 o'clock. That's got to be some kind of record."

"Well, actually, I was hoping you'd let me get on your computer for just a few minutes," Lucas said, smirking.

"I knew it," Bridger said with a smile. "All right, why don't you go ahead and I'll make up your bed."

"You don't have to do that. I'll put the sheets on when I'm done."

"That's what you say now, but tomorrow I'll find you asleep in your clothes on top of a bare mattress," Bridger said, and pulled Lucas off the bed. "Go on. I'll take care of it."

"Thanks," Lucas said, and went off to the study.

He found that he had painful knots in his stomach almost as soon as he turned on the computer. There was no reason for him to be so nervous about possibly hearing from his father, but his body apparently didn't care about reason. Lucas practically bounced up and down in the chair at Bridger's computer as he waited for it to warm up. When the computer was ready, Lucas' fingers flew over the keyboard and in less than a minute he was checking for messages. He almost felt sick at what he saw. There was nothing.

The disappointment was immense, but Lucas tried to tell himself that it didn't mean anything. His father had never been any good at keeping in touch when he wasn't playing dead; why should he be any better about it now? Lucas found himself ashamed that he'd even been hopeful for something more. It had been so easy for his father to reclaim him, he realized. But when it came down to it, he was doomed to always be disappointed when it came to his father. Lucas sighed and made to turn off the computer, when he suddenly remembered the file, Frodo. He briefly considered trying to download it now, but realized that he probably wouldn't have time to get it all, much less look at it, before Bridger walked in. He'd have to wait until later, perhaps until he had his own computer.

Bridger was just tossing a pillow onto Lucas' bed when he returned to his room. Lucas stood in the doorway for a moment and watched Bridger pull back the blankets and fluff the pillow.

"You going to tuck me in too?" he asked, and Bridger jumped, startled.

"After I read you a bedtime story, sure," he said, smiling. Lucas laughed and walked into the room, kicking his shoes off as he went.

"If it's okay with you, I'd like to get a laptop soon, maybe even tomorrow," he said, reaching into his duffel bag for something to wear to bed.

"What, my computer isn't good enough for you?"

"Well…"

"No, don't say it," Bridger said. "Don't worry, we'll get you something appropriate tomorrow. The UEO will probably cover it, in fact, since I imagine you'll be using it for work."

"Excellent," Lucas said, already trying to calculate just how much the UEO would pay.

"And while we're out, it wouldn't hurt to get you some new clothes," Bridger went on. "In case you hadn't noticed, it's a lot warmer here than on a submarine."

"Good point," Lucas said, although he was not thrilled at the idea of going clothes shopping with the captain. He had to admit that jeans and turtlenecks weren't going to work here.

"Good, then it's decided. Tomorrow we go shopping," Bridger said. "And now I'll let you get to bed. Go ahead and sleep in tomorrow. When we start work next week, you'll have to be up at 7 to make the ferry."

"Seven?" Lucas said in astonishment, his eyes widening in disbelief. "I never even got up that early on the seaQuest."

"Yeah, I noticed," Bridger said. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it."

"I seriously doubt that."

Bridger smiled at that and looked fondly at Lucas for a moment as he began to unbutton his suit shirt and get ready for bed. "I'm glad you're here, Lucas."

Lucas smiled back shyly. "Me too, sir. Thank you, for everything."

"You're welcome," Bridger said. "Goodnight."

"'Night."

Lucas was asleep five minutes later.


	6. Chapter 6

The next several days at Bridger's house were remarkable simply for their lack of excitement and anxiety. It had been weeks, perhaps even months, since either of them had endured such a long period of relaxation, with no regard for work or responsibility. It was a rare experience for both of them, and they took every advantage of it.

With money sent from his mom, Lucas bought a summer wardrobe and a few other "necessities," including a healthy supply of his favorite music and a few games to install on Bridger's computer. His own new laptop would take a few days to arrive; he'd ordered enough special features for it that no local stores had what he needed in stock.

At home, for the most part, Lucas spent his days lounging. He slept until noon and spent hours swimming in the water behind Bridger's house. To his great surprise, Darwin arrived on their second day at the island, brushing up against Lucas' legs while he was swimming and nearly scaring him into what would have been an embarrassing accident. With no vo-corder available – the closest one was at the UEO labs where Bridger and Lucas would be working – Lucas was content to simply swim and play with the dolphin, enjoying the game of guessing what Darwin's frequent squeals and chirps meant.

Lucas showed impressive restraint on the computer. He went online for a few hours every day, but he refused to download the mysterious file or to check for any more messages from his father until he had his own laptop. It was a terrible temptation, but Lucas was nothing if not stubborn; once he'd promised himself not to give into the pressure to look, he kept to that promise.

Bridger, for his part, did not show the same stubbornness – Lucas only had to beg three times before the captain let him on his motorcycle. Bridger spent several hours teaching Lucas how to ride, and the island turned out to be the perfect spot for practicing, with its nearly empty roads and non-existent police force.

The captain turned out to be a decent cook, at least as far as Lucas was concerned, and every night they made dinner together. That was an entirely new experience for Lucas, who had grown up with two parents who rarely entered the kitchen. Therefore, at age 17, the only thing Lucas could do in a kitchen was boil water, and that skill came from countless lab experiments. Toast proved a challenge for him.

Two days before their return to work, Bridger was showing Lucas how to make a simple spaghetti sauce when a knock came at the front door. Lucas, covered with tomato sauce that he'd spilled down the front of himself – and grateful for once that the captain had forced him to wear an apron – let Bridger answer the door.

"Well, hello!" Bridger's pleasantly surprised voice carried into the kitchen.

"Welcome home, Nathan," answered two children's voices, nearly in unison.

Overcome with curiosity, Lucas left the sauce unmanned on the stove and peaked around the corner of the kitchen into the front entryway. On the other side of Bridger, he could see a preteen girl and a young boy missing two front teeth. They both had pink noses and the same straight blond hair, and they were holding hands. They grinned brightly at Bridger.

"What brings you two here?" Bridger asked.

"Mama said to invite you to dinner tomorrow night," answered the girl.

"We're having a party," the boy added.

"A party?" Bridger said. "Well, I can't turn down a party. What time did your mom say we should be there?"

"Dinner's at 6," the girl said. "But Mama said you can get there anytime. And she said to make sure you bring your friend."

At this Bridger turned and saw Lucas poking his head out of the kitchen, still unnoticed by the children. Bridger smiled and turned back to the front door.

"You bet," he said to the children. "We'll see you tomorrow. Thanks for inviting us."

"You're welcome," the girl said smartly, and with a small tug on the boy's hand she pulled him away from the door. "Goodbye," she added as they walked away.

"'Bye," the boy echoed.

Bridger watched the children walk down his front walkway and then closed the door and faced Lucas.

"Well, looks like we won't have to cook tomorrow," he said, walking back to the kitchen.

"Who were they?"

"The neighborhood kids," Bridger answered with no further explanation. "Lucas, I thought I told you to keep an eye on the sauce."

"Oops," Lucas said, running to the stove, where the sauce was beginning to bubble over the top of the pan. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Bridger said, tossing a handful of pasta into boiling water. "You're cleaning tonight."

xxxXXXxxx

The next day Lucas found himself sitting in the middle of a long bench at a picnic table, squeezed between two of the four Desmond children and turning down a third offer of fresh emu burger. All of the permanent island residents had been invited to this dinner, which masqueraded as a welcome home party for Bridger and, consequently, Lucas. The six members of the Desmond family alone accounted for more than half of the year-round island inhabitants, which also included an elderly retired couple and a man named Franklin Diamond who appeared to be in his early-30s and lived alone.

Dinner had long been consumed and the adults were settled in lounge chairs near the water, drinking beer and talking loudly about sports and politics. The kids, and Lucas had to admit that included him, were still sitting at the table.

Lucas was the only one who'd refused emu for dinner. He had never tasted real meat before and the very idea of it disgusted him now. Meat had been banned years ago, but private landowners were still allowed to raise animals for their own consumption. It wasn't the legalities that bothered Lucas, however; he'd seen the faces of those poor emus in the Desmonds' side yard. He couldn't stand the thought of eating something with a face.

Given Lucas' insistence on eating only potato salad and rolls for dinner, his stomach grumbled with excitement when the eldest Desmond child, a shy and lanky girl with the same blond hair as her brothers and sisters, brought two cartons of ice cream and sundae toppings from the house. The children squealed with delight when their sister arrived. Within minutes, hot fudge sauce and whipped cream were liberally covering not just the ice cream, but nearly the entire tabletop.

"So Lucas, why are you staying with Nathan?" asked Trevor, the second oldest of the children and the most inquisitive, Lucas had already learned.

"I'm going to be working with him," Lucas answered, wincing at a sudden ice cream headache from taking too big of a bite.

Trevor's eyes popped in admiration. "Really? That's so cool."

"What about your parents?" Lucy, the middle child, asked. She and her little brother, Stephen, had been the ones to invite Bridger to the party.

"What about them?" Lucas asked.

"They don't mind you living away from home?" she asked.

"No," Lucas answered slowly, not sure how much information to volunteer. But he figured that since these were now his neighbors, the basics of his background would all come out eventually. "My dad is dead, and my mom is used to me living away from home."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Lucy said, and the children became quiet. For several minutes, the only sound that came from the table was the clinking of spoons in the bowls.

"Your mom doesn't mind you being away?" Trevor asked finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"Not really," Lucas said. "I mean, she doesn't like it, I guess. But I've lived away from her before."

"Why?" Stephen asked. Lucas looked at the youngster and smiled; his face was covered with chocolate.

"Well, my parents divorced when I was very young, and for a while I lived with my father."

"Why?" Stephen asked again. Cheryl, the oldest of the children, gave him a warning swat on the arm.

"Stop asking so many questions," she said quietly to her brother.

"When did your dad die?" Trevor asked.

"Trevor!" Cheryl cried, her eyes widening in dismay. She turned to Lucas, her face heavy with embarrassment. He gave her a weak smile in return.

"Hey, kids, how's the ice cream?"

Lucas and Cheryl gave nearly identical sighs of relief to hear Bridger. The captain walked up behind Lucas and settled a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze.

"It's so good. Want some?" Stephen asked, holding up his own bowl and grinning through the chocolate smeared all around his mouth.

"Maybe later," Bridger said with a laugh. "So, did Lucas tell you guys about his new job?"

"He said he's going to be working with you," Trevor volunteered.

"That's right. But did he tell you what exactly he'll be doing?"

The children shook their heads nearly in unison, their identical blond hair swishing around their faces.

"He'll be helping me build the next seaQuest."

"Wow," Lucy and Trevor called out at the same time, the boy looking as though he'd just met a celebrity. Cheryl stared at Lucas in awe. Stephen was the only one who went quietly back to eating his ice cream.

"You're really going to work on the seaQust?" Trevor asked, his voice quiet and serious. Lucas nodded.

"You must be really smart," Lucy said. "Even smarter than Cheryl, and Mama says she's so smart she can take a college class next year."

Lucas smiled brightly at that, glancing at Cheryl, who was staring at the table and turning an impressive shade of pink from her chin to her ears.

"He's pretty smart, all right," Bridger agreed, teasing Lucas and ruffling his hair. Lucas ducked under the captain's hand and smiled back at him.

"What will you be doing on the seaQuest?" Trevor asked.

"I'll be on the computer design team," Lucas said.

"Computers?" Trevor asked, his voice cracking. "You're into computers?"

"Yeah, definitely," Lucas said.

"Me too," Trevor beamed. "But I'm just learning. I haven't even hacked into anything interesting yet."

"Oh, I can help you there," Lucas offered.

"You can?" Trevor asked, gasping in glee.

"You can?" Bridger said, cocking an eyebrow at Lucas.

"Um, maybe not," Lucas said, treating Trevor with a knowing grin before smiling innocently at the captain. Bridger just laughed.

"I'll let you two talk about it later," he said, and squeezed Lucas' shoulder one more time. "I hate to break up the fun, but we've got to get going, kiddo. Remember, work tomorrow. You have to get up at 7."

Lucas groaned at that, but stood up from the table and said goodnight to the children, smiling as Trevor continued to gape at him like he'd found a new hero. Cheryl met his eyes just quickly enough to say a polite goodbye. After thanking the Desmonds for dinner and saying goodbye to the rest of the adults, Lucas and Bridger headed back to their house, walking in companionable silence as evening encroached on the island.

A deep dusk had settled by the time the house was in sight, but before they'd even reached the driveway Lucas could see the package on the front porch and knew his laptop had arrived. Skipper delivered the island mail, usually dropping it off in a ferry office on the island at the end of the day, but apparently he'd made a special trip for the package. Lucas grinned and sped up the driveway. Bridger rolled his eyes behind him.

"You've got until 11, Lucas," he called after him as Lucas picked up his package, already ripping off the tape even as he opened the front door. "No staying up all night with your new toy."

"Uh huh," Lucas called back, not even bothering with a glance at the captain as he headed toward his room.

"I mean it," Bridger yelled, but Lucas was already in his room.

Lucas closed his bedroom door – a move that he knew wouldn't offend Bridger, as his need for privacy had been well-known on the seaQuest – and ripped into the package, revealing the new laptop and a packet of manuals that he knew he would never bother reading. He sat down at the desk next to his bed and immediately turned on the laptop. It took him several minutes to get the basics set up on the laptop, but soon enough he was downloading all of the files saved from his seaQuest computer. Once the download was established, Lucas paused for a moment, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. It had been five days since he last checked his messages, and more than a week since he'd heard from his father. Lucas felt a knot twisting in his stomach and he swallowed hard, his throat tight from anxiety. He had to look.

His fingers flying again, it took less than a minute to tap into his messages. And there it was. His father had replied.

__

Lucas,

I'm sorry it's taken so long to respond to your last message. It isn't always safe where I am right now, so please be patient with me. I will write as often as I can.

Thank you for writing to me. It is a relief to know you believe me. I will answer only some of your questions because too much information could get you into a lot of trouble. Please forgive me the secrecy. It's for your own protection.

I managed to escape in a shuttle, soon after I spoke to you. Two of my colleagues died before we were able to get to the shuttle, so I left alone. I was able to disable the locator beacon and pilot the shuttle to a remote beach. I have been in hiding since then. I'm not sure how I managed to avoid the seaQuest's sensor equipment. Perhaps the extreme heat caused a malfunction.

How are you, son? I hope my absence isn't causing you too much trouble and pain. I can imagine it must be difficult (especially attending my memorial service – I'm sorry to put you through that). Know that I love you very much and look forward to seeing you again. I don't know how long I will have to hide, but I think of you often.

Please write back when you get this. Tell me everything that is going on in your life. Are you with your mother? Have you read any interesting journals lately? It is very difficult being out of touch with the real world. I crave interaction with my fellow scientists.

Remember that you must act as though I really am dead. I know this is asking a lot, but it's important. My life depends on it.

Love,

Dad

Lucas leaned back in his chair, staring at the words in front of him. He felt a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and scrubbed a hand over his face, then read the message over again, as if to confirm that it was still there, that it was still real. He closed his eyes, his mind racing with questions. He desperately wanted to know what kind of trouble his father was in. He wondered if it would explain what went wrong with the World Power Project. Maybe none of it had been his father's fault. Maybe the entire disaster had been part of a plot to kill his father.

Even as he grinned with pleasure as he read the note, a short stab of anger shot out at Lucas and a coldness fogged his mind for a moment. A handful of friendly, even loving messages, that cold part of his mind insisted, weren't nearly enough to make up for years of neglect. He should fight back. He should retaliate now with a mean, stabbing message in reply, something that would make it clear that Lucas couldn't be reclaimed so easily. Or better yet, he should just delete the message altogether and never reply to his father.

But that anger wouldn't sit still in Lucas, and before those thoughts could fully form in his mind, he pushed them aside and reread the message from his father. He cared. He wanted to know what was going on. He was interested.

Lucas' fingers danced across the keyboard in his reply, much longer than any other note he'd sent so far. In several paragraphs, he told of the memorial service and Bridger's house on the island. He talked about the seaQuest going down, his illness, his upcoming work on designing a new submarine. If they had been speaking in person, it seemed to Lucas that he would have been chattering nonstop for an hour; as it was, his thoughts raced far faster than even his nimble fingers could type.

Nearly 45 minutes later, Lucas sent his message and leaned far back in his chair, tipping the front legs off the floor and linking his hands behind his head. He sat quietly there for a moment, basking in the exchange with his father, and then remembered the file he was supposed to download, Frodo. His chair came crashing back down to the floor.

A quick search of the files he had downloaded found Frodo, and Lucas opened it up, unsure what to expect. It turned out to be a document, and a rather large one at that. A quick scan showed nearly 1,000 pages of text mixed in with charts and a few sketches; but mostly there was a lot of text. He groaned under his breath and flipped to the first page of the document to read the title: "An Investigation of UEO Production Data on Optimal Technologies for Measuring Resource Management Cycling." This time he groaned quite loudly.

Surely this report couldn't have come from his father. As he skimmed through a summary of the document – the summary alone was 30 pages – he saw nothing that directly related to his father's most recent work in thermal energy.

It occurred to him that he couldn't be positive his father had actually sent the file. He assumed as much, simply because of the file's name. It couldn't have come with any of the messages, because Lucas would have seen the file attached; it wouldn't have automatically shown up on his hard drive. Lucas had simply figured it must have been sent in secret during his father's last contact with him from the World Power Project facility. But he didn't know that for sure.

He briefly considered sending another message to his father and simply asking if he was the one who sent it, and why, but immediately rejected the idea. If his father had indeed sent the file, he would have told Lucas about it – unless it was because of the file that he was in danger. If that was the case, it was too risky for Lucas to mention it. Lucas would have to figure out why he'd been sent the file on his own.

He reread the title. "An Investigation of UEO Production Data on Optimal Technologies for Measuring Resource Management Cycling." Damn scientists and their arrogant vocabularies, he muttered to himself. Couldn't they come up with a title that actually meant something?

With a sigh he started reading the report summary in earnest, absently realizing that his mind was probably craving this type of scientific jargon, having been gone from his job at the seaQuest for a week now. Just a few pages into it, a soft knock came at his door, and Lucas quickly closed the document before telling Bridger to come in.

"It's almost midnight," the captain said, and Lucas looked sharply at the clock on his desk. He'd had no idea it was that late.

"All right. I'm going to bed," Lucas said.

"Really? It's that easy? No arguments?"

"I can argue a little if you really want me to," Lucas said with a grin.

"No, that's quite all right," Bridger answered with a smile of his own. "Remember, we have to be up at 7."

"Yeah, right," Lucas mumbled.

"What was that?"

"You're right," Lucas said with feigned eagerness. The captain walked to Lucas' desk and ruffled his hair with an affectionate pat that Lucas only half-heartedly dodged.

"I'm heading to bed," Bridger said. "I'll wake you in the morning. You really should try to get to bed soon."

"I know. I will."

"Good," Bridger said as he walked back out the door. "Goodnight."

"'Night."

True to his word, Lucas didn't stay up much later, already losing interest in the document he'd downloaded. He figured he had plenty of time for reading later and anyway, the next day really was too important to risk spoiling with not enough sleep. Lucas was sprawled in his bed and deeply asleep by 1 a.m., a small smile still settled on his face. 


	7. Chapter 7

The windows rattled in his bedroom as Lucas slammed the door with a satisfying bang. He kicked off his shoes and threw himself so hard into the chair in front of his desk that it nearly toppled over. Out of habit more than anything, Lucas turned on his laptop and typed his way through the security systems he'd set up to log on.

He heard a knock at his door.

"Go away," Lucas yelled, but the knocking persisted.

"I'm coming in, Lucas."

Lucas scowled into his computer, but didn't say anything. He opened a file he'd been working on all week at the UEO labs. Bridger opened the door and walked in.

"You left these in the other room," he said, tossing a backpack and motorcycle helmet onto Lucas' bed. Lucas continued staring at his computer. "Look, I know it's frustrating learning something new-"

"I don't want to talk about it," Lucas interrupted.

"All right, you don't have to. But you could learn to control your temper a little bit."

"And maybe you could learn to control your sense of humor," Lucas spat back.

"I said I was sorry," Bridger said patiently. He waited in the doorway for another moment before leaving the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Lucas winced after the captain had walked out. He recognized he was being childish. He knew he was behaving badly because his pride had been wounded, not because he was actually angry with the captain. But he couldn't admit that now.

Lucas blushed as he recalled the incident that had set him off. They'd taken the motorcycle to work that morning, as they did two or three days a week when Bridger was in the mood. On the way back, Bridger had surprised Lucas by allowing him to drive. Lucas had been thrilled but nervous – he'd never driven off the island. He had done fine, though, until they got to the ferry gate. Lucas had stopped too suddenly and stalled. In his surprise at messing up, Lucas had lost his balance and, before he knew it, he and the captain had tipped over and were sprawled awkwardly on the pavement. No one had been hurt, but Lucas had been furious at himself for the mistake. It had only made matters worse when he'd looked up and seen Bridger and Skipper laughing.

Lucas had been so angry that he'd refused to speak to the captain or Skipper on the ferry ride back to the island, and as soon as he'd entered the house he'd thrown his helmet onto the kitchen table and stomped to his room.

If he was honest with himself, Lucas had to admit that his temper had been surfacing more than usual in the past several weeks since they'd started working at the UEO labs designing the new seaQuest.

It wasn't the job. Lucas was enjoying his work very much, in fact. The team he'd been assigned to was friendly and unbiased – they didn't so much as raise an eyebrow at Lucas' age, and in fact had seemed eager to meet and work with him. They listened to his theories with enthusiastic interest, and regularly told him how impressed they were by his accomplishments on the sub. In fact, their welcome had been so warm that, for a day or two, Lucas had wondered if Bridger had forced them to treat him kindly, or if they were taking pity on him because they'd heard about his father. But by the end of the first week, Lucas was so absorbed in the project that he didn't care why the team accepted him so readily; he was just thrilled to be working.

Still, the days were often long and exhausting. Redesigning the computer system for the UEO's flagship submarine was indeed the chance of a lifetime for Lucas and his coworkers, but it was also a monumental pain in the butt. Some of the very best scientists in the world were gathered on this project, and they all had unique theories for how best to accomplish the task. It was thrilling, enlightening and completely frustrating work. As pleased as Lucas was that his theories were being taken just as seriously as any other scientist's, that didn't mean he was getting special treatment. After all, there were Nobel Prize winners and world famous mathematicians on Lucas' team, and they weren't going to back off from their own theories because a 17-year-old disagreed with them.

From day one on the job, Lucas and Bridger had started working 12-hour days, and more often than not they ended up driving to the UEO labs on Saturdays. Bridger insisted they take Sundays off, as much for his own sanity as to give Lucas a day to act his age. Lucas still managed to sneak in an hour or two of work on his laptop on most Sundays, but he mostly took advantage of the days off, swimming with Darwin or tagging along with the Desmond kids when the family got back from morning church. Lucas was loath to admit it, but he very much enjoyed the company of the neighboring children, and he looked forward to playing along with their silly games of tag and hide-and-seek. At 17 he knew he was too old for such games, but he'd never played them before and so he shrugged them off as new experiences. As a scientist, Lucas told himself, it was important to experience firsthand all that he could of life, even the most trivial game of Duck, Duck, Goose.

Meanwhile, he made little progress with reading Frodo. In the first week or so after opening the file, he'd forced himself to read 20 pages a night, but that quickly fell back to 15, then 10, until it occurred to him that at that rate it would take him more than three months to finish reading. Besides, he was exhausted most days when he got home from work, and he wasn't even really reading the file, just skimming over the words while he let his mind wander back to the seaQuest project. Before long, he'd stopped reading it altogether.

The messages from his father had arrived on a somewhat regular basis over the past several weeks, and Lucas was always prompt in his responses. It quickly dawned on him that he'd had more contact with his father over the past six weeks than in the previous six years combined. That small part of his mind sometimes still berated him for caving in to his father's love so easily. He couldn't help but feel bitter that his father was paying more attention to him now than ever before. Had it taken a near-death experience to make him appreciate his son? Would his father abandon him again once life returned to normal and he didn't have to hide anymore? But Lucas was becoming better and better at quieting that niggling voice of doubt. He ate up his father's messages. He didn't begrudge his rapidly beating heart or sweaty palms every time he checked for new replies. He would occasionally ask when he might be able to see his father, but the responses were always vague on that count – not now, maybe soon, it was too dangerous, be patient. The disappointment was wrenching sometimes, and he couldn't help but wonder if his father was deliberately staying away. But mostly he was just happy to have his father at all.

There was really only one spot of trouble for Lucas right now, and he sighed deeply and glanced back at his bedroom door as he considered that spot: Bridger.

Lucas couldn't quite explain why he'd been so ill tempered toward the captain lately. Sure, for the most part they got along fine. They rarely saw each other at work, sometimes only talking during weekly strategic planning meetings that involved nearly everyone working on the seaQuest project. At home, they often were so tired that they retired to their separate rooms immediately after dinner.

Still, Lucas found himself picking fights and chafing at some of the restrictions the captain put on him at home. Part of it was simply a matter of Lucas not being used to having a parent around. Lucas figured it had been nearly 10 years since he'd had an adult looking after him like Bridger did – telling him when to go to bed, asking him to clean up after himself, forcing him to do chores like washing dishes or taking out the trash. On the seaQuest Bridger had technically been Lucas' guardian, but with a submarine to run and more than 200 people under his charge, that didn't translate into much day-to-day oversight. Lucas had been mostly on his own on the boat, with only occasional mothering from Westphalen or other people who had taken Lucas under their wings.

But the extra parenting couldn't explain everything. If Lucas was honest with himself, he had to admit he'd been far more irritable in the past few weeks than was normal for him. Lucas knew he wasn't a particularly bad kid. He mostly did what was asked of him, with only a little bit of eye-rolling or grumbling under his breath. On the seaQuest he'd been used to helping others and volunteering his services, even doing odd chores in the labs.

But at home, Lucas was quick-tempered and easily provoked by Bridger, usually over trivial matters like his cooking or what to watch on television. He refused to clean up his room. He left his wet clothes in the washing machine. He left dirty socks on the living room couch. He woke up later and later for work each day, until finally he was able to get dressed and ready in 10 minutes and still make the ferry off the island. This particular habit was especially annoying to Bridger, who was naturally an early riser and, in Lucas' opinion, overly strict about tardiness.

There also was the matter of his father. Bridger had made it clear he wasn't going to force Lucas to talk about his father's death, but the captain also wasn't going to let the topic drop without eventually dealing with it. Every other day he found some way to bring up Lucas' dad, and every other day Lucas shrugged it off. It was starting to become a near-constant source of annoyance for Lucas, especially given that his father wasn't actually dead. Lucas wanted desperately to tell Bridger about the messages – he felt guilty for keeping such a giant secret from a man he trusted and cared about – but he knew it wasn't an option.

The worst part was the terrible guilt Lucas felt every time they fought. He knew it wasn't Bridger's fault. Lucas knew his frustration and anger were misdirected. But that didn't make it easy to control his temper. If anything, it just made him feel more annoyed and frustrated with himself.

There was another knock at Lucas' door, and he glanced quickly at his clock to find that nearly an hour had passed. Lucas got up to open the door himself.

"Hey, sorry to bother you," Bridger said.

"No, it's fine."

"We're eating soon. Dr. Westphalen is bringing Chinese."

Lucas smiled. Westphalen was a frequent guest at Bridger's house, stopping by at least once a week for dinner. Her visits to the Bridger household were a treat to both the captain and Lucas, and not just because they guaranteed the best meals of the week. Her presence also meant their dinner wouldn't end in a battle of wills. They were both on their best behavior with Westphalen around.

"Good, I'm hungry," Lucas said.

"Skipped lunch again today?"

Lucas nodded sheepishly. He and the captain didn't see much of each other at work, but Lucas knew Bridger had a pretty strong network of spies that kept tabs on him.

"She'll be here in about 15 minutes," Bridger said and turned to leave.

"Captain?" Bridger looked up. "I'm sorry, about earlier. It wasn't your fault."

"I know," Bridger said. "Apology accepted. And I'm sorry I laughed at you."

Twenty minutes later all seemed to be forgotten, and Lucas was enjoying casual talk about work and office gossip – along with warm spring rolls and chow mein – at the kitchen table.

Westphalen wasn't much of a cook herself, but she was surprisingly well informed about the best restaurants in New Cape Quest. Aside from the weekly dinners she brought them, the doctor treated Lucas and Bridger to delicious brunches most Sunday mornings – or early afternoons, depending on when Lucas could be dragged out of bed. She would arrive at the house with armfuls of steamy sausages, crisp potato pancakes and bowls of creamy oatmeal from a deli near her the home she was renting.

After the destruction of the seaQuest, Westphalen's job with the UEO technically had ended. But her next project wasn't lined up for another nine months, and so she had asked to join Bridger in the early stages of planning a health care system for the new boat. Like everyone else involved in the seaQuest project, Westphalen considered her work a rare professional opportunity – in her case, to design the ideal infirmary for a state-of-the-art submarine.

Lucas also knew that it was also an excellent opportunity to further the relationship with Bridger that had only begun to blossom at the end of their tour on the seaQuest. When Westphalen wasn't forcing Lucas to take lunch breaks at work, she was slipping off for discreet lunches of her own with the captain. Either way, she didn't eat much herself.

"Well, that was incredible," Bridger said, tossing his napkin and chopsticks on his plate after finishing his dinner.

"Indeed," Westphalen immodestly agreed. "Lao Ching's has the best mu shu pork in southern Florida, I believe."

"Why would people ever want to eat real meat when they can have this?" Lucas said, reaching across the table with his chopsticks to nab the last bit of rice from a carton.

"Trust me, Lucas, there's something to be said for the real thing," Bridger said with a grin.

"I'll take your word for it," Lucas said, grimacing. He stood up and began stuffing the empty food cartons into a bag of trash. "Can you pass me your plate, Doctor?"

Westphalen smiled at Lucas as she handed him her dinner plate.

"Thanks, Lucas," Bridger said as he passed his own plate across the table. Lucas nodded and carried the dishes into the kitchen, where he started running some water in the sink.

"So, Lucas, what are you going to do with your break?" Westphalen said, her voice raised slightly to talk over the running water.

"Break?" Lucas asked, his eyes still on the plate he was washing.

"I haven't told him about the break yet," Bridger said to Westphalen.

"Why not?" she asked.

"You know Lucas, he hates the idea of not working," Bridger said.

"What are you guys taking about?" Lucas asked, glancing over his shoulder at them as he added a clean plate to the dish rack to dry. Bridger sighed.

"The UEO Founders' Day is next week," Bridger explained.

"Yeah, so."

"So, we all get a week off of work," Bridger said.

"A week?" Lucas asked.

"Yep, a whole week."

"Why so long?"

"Well, Founders' Day is a pretty big deal to the UEO," Bridger said.

"Yeah, but it's Founders' Day, not Founders' Week," Lucas argued.

"He's got a point," Westphalen said with a smile.

"I don't know why it's a week," Bridger said with an exasperated sigh. "It just is. And the labs will be closed."

"We have keys," Lucas said.

"There will be a lot of events for us to participate in," Bridger said apologetically.

"You mean for you to participate in," Lucas said with a grin. "Who cares if some kid is there."

"You're not just some kid, Lucas," Bridger said with a grin of his own. "Besides, you could use the vacation. We both could."

"We've barely been working for a month," Lucas moaned. "I don't need a vacation."

"Well, it doesn't much matter what you need, everyone's taking the week off," Bridger said. "UEO orders. Your whole team will be gone, so there won't be much for you to do anyway."

"Oh, I'm sure I could find something," Lucas said, turning off the water and picking up a towel to start drying the clean dishes.

"I'm sure you could," Bridger said with a laugh.

"A break will be fun," Westphalen said, picking up the debate. "You could travel somewhere, Lucas. Maybe you could visit your mom."

Lucas frowned thoughtfully at that, rubbing the towel over a dish that was well past dry. He wasn't about to visit his mother and stepfather, but the thought of traveling put another idea in his mind. If his father couldn't come to him, perhaps he could go to his father.

"I bet your mom would love a visit," Bridger said, interrupting Lucas' thoughts.

"Huh?" Lucas said, realizing the captain was talking to him. "My mom? Oh, no, I'm sure she's already got plans."

"You haven't even talked to her, Lucas," Bridger said, looking mildly amused. "How can you possibly know if your mom is busy?"

Lucas shrugged. "She's just a busy person."

"I'm sure she'd love to see you," Westphalen said. "She must miss having her son around."

"Right," Lucas mumbled. He caught Bridger and the doctor sharing a meaningful glance at the table, and began furiously rubbing the next dish dry.

"Your mom seemed pretty disappointed that you weren't going to be moving back home with her," Bridger said. "Why don't you give her a call tomorrow, see if she'd like you to visit?"

"Fine," Lucas said, piling the dry plates in a stack with a loud crash. He smiled to himself when he saw Bridger grimace out of the corner of his eye.

"Good. At the very least I'm sure she'll be happy to talk to you," Bridger said. Lucas could hear the strain in his voice as he tried to stay calm.

"You know, you guys seem awfully eager to get me out of here," Lucas said, a thought finally occurring to him. "You have plans of your own, don't you? A little romantic getaway? But first you need to ship the kid out of town."

"Lucas-"

"Hey now-"

Lucas interrupted both adults before they could say anything else.

"Don't worry about it," he said casually. "I'm used to it, you know. Being in the way. I wouldn't want to ruin your plans. I'll just-"

"That's enough," Bridger said loudly, and Lucas' head shot up at the stern note of frustration that meant the captain was truly becoming angry. "Lucas, you know good and well that we wouldn't do that to you. I told you I have to be in town for the Founders' Day activities, so I'm not going anywhere. You are welcome to stay here, of course. I would never force you to leave."

Lucas bit back a retort about the captain forcing him to leave the seaQuest once. He recognized when he was crossing a line. Instead he nodded contritely at Bridger and went back to putting the rest of the dishes away.

"I'm sorry, Lucas," Westphalen said. "I didn't mean to make it sound like we wanted you to leave."

"No, no, it's okay," Lucas said, smiling at her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"I still think you're wrong about your mom, Lucas," Bridger said. "She really did seem disappointed about you staying with me at…um, your father's funeral."

There was an awkward silence for a moment. Lucas swallowed hard and hoped they weren't about to delve into his so-called grief again. It was one thing to deter Bridger from a conversation about his father, but with Westphalen there too, he was sure they would gang up on him. He needed to steer the conversation in a new direction, and fast.

"Who wants coffee?" he asked, opening the freezer to pull out a packet of Bridger's favorite gourmet beans.

"Lucas," Westphalen began softly, and Lucas cringed, knowing he wasn't going to avoid anything, "it might be nice to see your mother again, after everything that's happened. Sometimes we need to rely on our families to pull us through difficult times."

"Yeah, well, my mom's not exactly the queen of coping," Lucas said. "Her idea of dealing with 'difficult times' is a tall drink and a heavy dose of denial."

"What about your stepfather?" Westphalen asked.

Lucas snorted. "Yeah, right."

"I guess he's not much better than your dad," Bridger added softly.

Lucas stopped, his hands frozen over the coffee machine even as the ground beans poured out of the bag. He gaped at Bridger.

"What did you say?"

Bridger seemed to realize his mistake immediately. "Lucas, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Don't you ever compare my father to that man," Lucas said in a flat tone of anger that he'd never before used in front of the captain. "My father is…was, good to me. He was a great man. He was brilliant and he loves me. Loved me. Rick the Dick is nothing."

Bridger raised an eyebrow at "Rick the Dick," but quickly masked his surprise. He stood up from the table and started to cross the kitchen toward Lucas.

"I'm really sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't have," Lucas said, his even voice belying the anger that he knew was apparent on his face. He slammed the bag of coffee on the counter, spilling ground beans all around him. As Bridger drew nearer, Lucas stepped away from the captain, pressing his back against the counter behind him. Bridger stopped walking.

"Lucas, Nathan didn't mean it," Westphalen said, and she too rose from the table to approach him. "Of course your father loved you. I'm sure he cared very much for you."

Lucas, cornered now in the kitchen, glared at both of them, his eyes swiveling from one adult to the other. His hands balled into fists and he closed his eyes, fighting back the swell of emotion that was threatening to swallow him. He opened his eyes to find the captain and the doctor staring at him with matching concerned frowns on their faces.

"I'm going to my room," he said abruptly, and pushed off the counter, knocking against Bridger's shoulder as he marched past.

"Hey, wait a minute," Bridger said.

"Lucas, please," Westphalen pleaded.

"Just leave me the hell alone," Lucas said, not bothering to look behind him as he walked away.

xxxXXXxxx

"What was that all about?" Westphalen's words were hushed, although she'd waited until Lucas was definitely in his room before speaking.

"I have no idea, but I intend to find out," Bridger said, staring down the hall toward Lucas' closed door.

"Has he ever mentioned his stepfather before?"

Bridger shook his head. "You know Lucas. He'd never say anything if there was a problem."

"Do you think there's a problem?" Westphalen asked.

"I don't know. I hope not," Bridger said with a shrug. He had his doubts, though. He'd never seen Lucas' anger ignite like that before.

He and Westphalen sat quietly at the table for several moments.

"Do you think he still feels threatened by us?" Westphalen asked.

"Maybe," he admitted, "but I doubt it." Bridger sighed deeply and studied his hands, folding them on the table. "Lucas has been kind of difficult since we moved here," he said. "Sometimes he seems just fine. You know, he likes to push boundaries and fight back a little bit, but when it comes down to it he's a good kid. But other times…well, he's sullen and moody and he gets angry. Maybe not as angry as he did just now, but pretty close."

Westphalen laughed softly, and then chuckled outright at the look of dismay and confusion from the captain.

"Nathan, he's a teenager," she said. "What do you expect?"

"Oh, I know all about teenagers," Bridger said, a touch testy from Westphalen's teasing. "Trust me, Robert was no piece of cake. I don't think he and I had a single conversation that didn't end in a yelling match between the ages of 13 and 18."

"Surely you exaggerate," Westphalen said, still giggling.

"I wish," he said, then let a smile cross his face. "No, I know Lucas is a teenager and he's allowed some of the usual attitude that comes with the age. But this is different."

"His father?" Westphalen suggested.

"I think so."

"Has he talked about it at all?"

"No," Bridger said, his shoulders sagging. "I try to talk about it, but he won't bite. Tonight was the first time he's even mentioned his dad since the funeral."

Westphalen closed her eyes and frowned.

"The poor thing," she said. "I imagine it must be hard for him. He probably doesn't even know what or how to feel, and he's just taking out that frustration on you."

"Maybe," Bridger said, "but I think there's more to it than that."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know," he said. "He seems perfectly happy most of the time, like he's coping with it all just fine. But it bothers me that he hasn't seemed to grieve at all. I worry that he's holding it all in, and that can't be healthy. I just can't get through to him at all."

"That's all pretty normal," Westphalen said. "He probably does feel fine most of the time. But he barely knew his father, Nathan, and he probably feels guilty for getting over the death so easily. It's very common for family members to feel that way, especially when they weren't exactly close to begin with."

"I know, I know," Bridger said with a dismissive wave. "Maybe all of this is normal. But that doesn't mean it's easy to watch."

"Of course not," Westphalen said softly. She leaned closer to him at the table and wrapped a hand around his arm, pulling him toward her. "He's lucky to have you, you know."

"I don't know that he'd agree with you there. At least, not tonight."

"Oh, he would," Westphalen said, reaching her other arm around to lay a hand on his cheek. "He knows he's got a good thing. Sometimes it's just hard to see it."

Bridger looked at her and smiled as their eyes locked.

"I'm lucky to have you, you know," he said.

"I know," she answered, and kissed him.

AN: Thanks to Devilrats for some very helpful suggestions for improving the characterizations in this chapter.


	8. Chapter 8

Before he'd even closed the door to his room, Lucas realized he'd behaved badly in the kitchen. Bridger's only information about Lucas' father came from what Lucas himself had mentioned – the forgotten birthdays, the missing phone calls, the neglect. The captain had no way of knowing that Dr. Wolenczak was actually a decent father, a changed man since his brush with death. Bridger certainly had no idea just how much Rick the Dick was not like Lucas' father. Dr. Wolenczak at his most neglectful was Father of the Year compared to Rick the Dick.

Lucas sighed and dropped into the chair in front of his laptop, picking up a pen and chewing on one end. Only his pride, and the disconcerting realization that he had lost control of his emotions for the second time in one day, kept him from returning and apologizing to the captain right away. He'd deal with that in the morning. Instead, Lucas tried to distract himself from his still uncomfortably bubbling emotions by tinkering on the computer. He'd just sent a new message to his father the night before, so he wasn't expecting a reply for another day or so. Lucas sighed deeply again, and dropped his chin in one hand as he tried aimlessly to entertain himself. But after 30 minutes, he grew bored with his games and could find nothing of interest on the news sites and message boards he frequently perused on the Internet.

Driven to such extremes of boredom, Lucas opened up Frodo. He hadn't bothered with the file in a couple weeks, stopping about 100 pages into the document when he could find nothing useful or even mildly interesting in there. But with nothing better to distract himself and his usual bedtime still an hour or so away, he decided to read a bit more.

He tackled the report from a different angle this time, turning to the index to see if any topics might actually spark his interest. Indeed, a handful of subjects did seem worth a read, he realized, and silently berated himself for not checking the index sooner. After reading through the C's and making a mental reminder to look back at the "Community Fusion Projects" section, Lucas decided to flip back to the W's. His father's name wasn't there, but Lucas was stunned to find an entry – a rather long entry with several pages listed – for the World Power Project. He quickly jumped to the first page mentioned, about three quarters of the way into the report. The title nearly shook him out of his chair: "World Power Project Failure Report."

Lucas read the 52-page section in less than an hour. His father's name was all over it. The report, completed the previous October, gave a detailed, well-researched analysis of exactly how and why the World Power Project was doomed to failure. And it was absolutely correct. The author who'd compiled the data had known of the lava stream running under the research center and had predicted when, where and how it would burst, and what the consequences would be. The author, Dr. Ramon Canales, pulled no punches in blaming Lucas' father, along with five other scientists from his team, for pushing forward too fast and too carelessly with the project. Canales recommended that the UEO abort the project outright and immediately.

Obviously no one had listened, and now Lucas wondered why.

In fact, he was frothing with questions now. Had his father known of this report? He must have, if he was the one who sent it to Lucas. But if he was aware of it, then why had he ignored it? Why hadn't the report been released outside the UEO? Why hadn't Canales warned everyone as the completion day approached? How could the UEO have allowed so much destruction?

The questions that buzzed through Lucas' mind competed only with the sudden nausea that struck him as he realized his father was at least partially responsible for so much disaster, even deaths. Eight people had died in the World Power Project explosion. Lucas now wondered if that was why his father was in hiding. Perhaps he was afraid of the truth coming out and taking all the blame. The thought of his father as such a coward turned Lucas' stomach, and he swallowed hard.

Then a new thought struck him, and he wondered if his father was such a coward after all. Lucas was still confident that it had likely been his father who had sent him the document. Why would he send Lucas the report if he was ashamed of what was in it and didn't want anyone to know about it? He must have wanted Lucas to read it. But then why not tell him about it in the messages?

Lucas' mind reeled at the confusing questions roiling about. None of it made any sense. He buried his head in his hands, tugging with frustration at his hair and squeezing his eyes shut. "Damn," Lucas muttered. Before he could swear again – and louder, this time – there was a knock at his door.

"Lucas? Are you awake?"

It was Bridger. "Damn," Lucas mumbled again.

"Is it all right if I come in?"

Lucas glanced at his monitor, his eyes immediately latching onto his father's name. He was in no mood to talk now. He stood up and walked to the door, cracking it open just a few inches.

"Can it wait until tomorrow?" he asked.

Bridger waited a moment to answer, glancing over Lucas' face with concern, then nodded.

"Sure. I just wanted to see if you were okay."

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"I'm sorry about tonight, Lucas."

"Me too. Can we talk about it tomorrow?" Lucas asked, staring at the floor.

"Yeah," Bridger said. "It's late. You going to bed soon?"

Lucas glanced back at the clock on his desk, surprised to see that it was already past midnight.

"In a few minutes," he said, feeling guilty about lying.

"Okay, kiddo. I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight," Lucas said, and closed the door.

He did not head straight for his computer, instead sitting heavily on his bed and once again burying his face in his hands. He would have to ask his father about the report, but what should he say? A few months ago, even a few weeks ago, Lucas would have been almost excited at the prospect of pointing out such a fundamental flaw in his father's research. It would have been satisfying. But not now, not when Dr. Wolenczak had become the father Lucas had been craving all through his childhood. The very thought of what he needed to say to his father twisted Lucas' gut and started a pounding in his head. He finally groaned in frustration and fell back on his bed, sighing as he stared up at the ceiling.

After several minutes of pointless staring, Lucas lifted up on his elbows and glanced again at his clock. It was 12:36. He needed to write the message. He dragged himself off the bed and settled again in front of the laptop.

__

Dad,

I finally read Frodo. We need to talk. Please tell me what is going on.

Love,

Lucas

Short and not-so-sweet. Lucas debated over the "love," and finally decided that yes, he still loved his father even if he may have been responsible for the deaths of eight people and a near worldwide environmental disaster. Besides, for now he would give his father the benefit of the doubt. He sent the message.

His head still buzzing and a headache blossoming behind his left eye, Lucas was tired but knew it would be some time before he could fall asleep. He reread the report on his father's project, paying special attention to the data that Canales had compiled and trying to find faults in the research. No mistakes jumped out at Lucas, but he was no expert in geothermal physics. After finishing the report, Lucas searched for information about Canales. Perhaps the man was a rogue scientist or a crackpot that no one in his field took seriously. In fact, Lucas found the opposite was true. Canales had published dozens of papers, most of them in very well respected and widely read journals. One of them Lucas remembered reading himself a few years ago. Lucas was scanning lazily over the results of his search when one entry caught his attention. It was a news article dated earlier this year. An obituary.

__

Dr. Ramon Canales, an international authority in particle physics who was best known for his extensive research into environmental policies and their effects on the world's oceans, died Sunday at his home in Glendale, Calif. He was 43.

The death notice went on to list Canales' many achievements, including his Nobel Prize nomination and his work with dozens of governments all over the country, including the UEO, in creating legislation to protect the oceans from environmental devastation. Lucas was mildly surprised that he'd never heard of Canales before, but then Lucas had always been more focused on his science than political agendas or policies. Now he wished he'd known about Canales earlier.

The obituary didn't mention how Canales had died, so Lucas searched further, a new worry settling into the pit of his stomach. It didn't take long to find what he was looking for. Canales had killed himself. He'd been found in his home dangling from a noose made with an electric cord.

Before the doubt that was creeping up Lucas' spine could take root in his mind, he turned off the computer. Lucas didn't want to think about why Canales had committed suicide. He certainly didn't want to think about the timing of Canales' death, so soon after the report about the World Power Project. Instead he turned off his light and climbed into bed fully clothed. It was hours before he fell asleep.

xxxXXXxxx

Lucas arrived in the kitchen a full 25 minutes earlier than usual the next morning, his hair wet and tousled from a shower and his eyes feeling red and puffy from too little sleep. Bridger gawked at Lucas as he tumbled into his chair at the table, treating him to an appraising stare before getting up to fetch him a cup of coffee without saying a word. Lucas nodded his thanks then shut his eyes as he quickly downed the cup of coffee. He heard Bridger pour him a refill.

"I can put a pillow on the table if you like," Bridger teased as Lucas' head drooped toward his chest. Lucas peered up at the captain through half-lidded eyes and yawned widely before responding.

"I didn't get much sleep last night," he mumbled. Bridger's face dropped in apology.

"Lucas, I'm sorry about what I said yesterday," the captain said, sitting back down at the table and staring into his own coffee. "I had no right to say anything about your father."

Lucas shut his eyes in a grimace. He should have figured the captain would blame himself for Lucas' lack of sleep, but Lucas couldn't say anything about the real cause of his insomnia. Instead he just shrugged.

"It's okay," he said. "I'm sorry for acting like a brat. I know you didn't mean anything. I hope I didn't ruin the rest of your evening with the doctor."

"No, no, you didn't ruin anything," Bridger said quickly. "Kristin's just worried about you. We both are."

"I know. But I'm fine, really."

"Lucas-"

"Captain, I promise, I'm doing all right," Lucas said, and for the most part that was the truth, he realized. Before his discovery last night, he'd been feeling pretty good, actually. Bridger sighed.

"Okay," he said, "but you know you can come to me if anything's wrong."

"I know."

They sat in silence for a moment longer, each sipping coffee and looking deep in thought. After a few minutes, Bridger cleared his throat.

"So, um, about Rick the Dick…" he started, glancing cautiously at Lucas.

"Right…" Lucas drawled. He mentally kicked himself for allowing that potentially explosive topic to come up last night. He had no intention of telling the captain the truth about Rick the Dick.

"Look, I won't force you to visit your mom," Bridger said. "But if there's something I should know, about your stepfather or whatever, you'll tell me, right?"

"Sure," Lucas said, staring into his cup as he swirled the last bit of his coffee around in the mug.

"Lucas, is there something I should know? About your stepfather?"

"No," Lucas said, still refusing to look at the captain.

"Why the nickname?"

Lucas shrugged.

"If he did anything to you…"

Lucas froze in his seat. This was not a conversation he wanted to be having after less than three hours of sleep and with only one and a half cups of coffee in him.

"It's okay, Captain," he said finally. "It's nothing I can't handle."

"Lucas-"

"Really, it's not a problem," Lucas said, and to himself he finished the statement. 'Not anymore.' It was the truth. Rick the Dick had once been a nightmare for Lucas, but those days were long behind him.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"But you'd tell me if it was a problem." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, of course."

Bridger sighed again, clearly not believing a word Lucas said but willing to let the topic drop, for now. They let a few more minutes of silence pass.

"So, Rick the Dick…"

"Really, Captain, it's fine-"

"I expected more creativity from you, Lucas."

"Huh?" Lucas finally looked up from his coffee to see a strange grin on the captain's face.

"Rick the Dick. It's not exactly original."

Lucas returned the grin.

"Well, I tried Rick the Consummate Miscreant, but it just didn't have the right ring to it, you know? Besides, I was only 10."

"Age is never an excuse, Lucas," Bridger said with a chuckle. "You should know that by now."

xxxXXXxxx

For the first time since joining the computer systems team, Lucas found himself completely unable to concentrate at work. The minutes groaned past, and nothing he tried – not complex math equations, capacity design sessions or any of the other tasks that usually left him working with a grin – could make the time pass any faster. After lunch he even tried playing with the new flight simulator he'd "borrowed" from the British Air Force, but after 15 minutes he'd already checked his watch 13 times.

It didn't help that he was exhausted, which left him feeling irritable and jumpy from the caffeine he needed to slug just so he wouldn't keel over asleep at his desk. But what it really all came down to was his father. Even in death, Lucas thought with an unpleasant smile, his father could really ruin a day. By 4:30, Lucas was bugging the captain to go home. It was a risky maneuver, seeing as Bridger was very likely to grow suspicious at Lucas' rare enthusiasm to leave work. Lucas' excuse was that he was eager to test a new program he'd developed using "pattern language and multimodal output for redundant coding" on his laptop at home. He was counting on the captain not understanding a word of what he'd said. His gamble worked, and they were home before 6.

There was a message waiting for Lucas on his laptop. His hands were shaking when he opened it, a throwback to the anxiety he'd felt when opening the first messages from his father.

__

Lucas,

It's important that I see you as soon as possible. I'm sorry I got you caught up in this mess. I never should have sent that file to you. I will explain everything.

Meet me tomorrow at 2 p.m. at the Johnson McKee Municipal Airport, hangar K. Go to the north entrance, off of Kendall Avenue, and type in the code 3593 at the security gate. Come alone. Don't tell anyone.

Bring the document with you, and please, for my safety and yours, delete all other copies of the document. If anyone finds out you have it, they won't hesitate to kill you or me. Please trust me, son.

Love,

Dad

Lucas could not stop staring at the screen. The words danced and throbbed in front of him, meaningless and disjointed. Meet. Johnson. North. Code. Security.

Tomorrow.

Lucas was going to see his father. His stomach clenched in a painful, nervous knot at the thought of it. His mouth was dry from hanging open in shock, and he closed it and licked his lips. He wiped a hand over his eyes, over his mouth, and finally rubbed at the back of his neck, never turning away from the screen, almost afraid that the message would disappear.

He had no idea what his father could possibly say to convince him that he was not at fault in the World Power Project disaster, that he was not responsible for those eight deaths. But it didn't matter. Lucas was going to see him. A smile stretched across his face, and Lucas finally tore his gaze away from the screen, nearly letting out a yelp of joy as he leaned back in his chair and grinned at the ceiling.

That smile disappeared in the next moment as a thought occurred to him. It would be dangerous for them to meet, especially at an airport – even a small, municipal airport – and so close to Founders' Day, with foreign delegates and wealthy business leaders flying from all over the world in their private jets. Lawrence Wolenczak was not an anonymous man. Even in some form of disguise, he would be easily recognizable, especially in the United States and so close to UEO offices. For days, even weeks leading up to the World Power Project's grand unveiling, his father's face had been plastered everywhere, in every city in the world.

Lucas smiled glumly as he remembered how bitter he'd felt then to be surrounded by his father everywhere he'd gone. That seemed like so long ago.

They would need to be cautious when they met. Lucas would need a plan.

His father hadn't asked for a reply, but Lucas sent one anyway, confirming that he'd meet his father at the appointed time. Then he set about preparing for the meeting, copying files, tracking down a map to the airport and figuring out how he would get out of work. It took several hours – including a two-hour break to eat with the captain and make idle after-dinner conversation to avoid suspicion – before he'd made all the arrangements. Lucas finally fell into bed at 1 a.m., exhausted by a full day of anxiety, and dropped off to sleep, still fully clothed, for a night of restless dreams.


	9. Chapter 9

For the second day in a row, the minutes passed at an agonizing pace for Lucas. The wait was even more excruciating this time, and Lucas was completely unable to concentrate. Several of his teammates asked if he was ill, commenting on how pale he was and the dark circles under his eyes, never mind that he seemed unnaturally quiet. Lucas simply offered what he knew was a pathetic attempt at a grin and assured them he was feeling fine. Meanwhile, he poured coffee down his throat like it was life sustaining. He couldn't sit still and imagined he must look like an addict in rehab the way he was bouncing around and shaking with nervous energy.

He kept imagining over and over again his meeting with his father. He played out conversations in his head, and wondered if they would shake hands or hug when they saw each other. He wondered if his father would look different after six weeks in hiding.

Finally, when everyone had left for lunch, Lucas headed toward Bridger's office at the other end of the labs. He needed the keys to the captain's motorcycle.

Lucas had considered calling in sick the night before and driving to the airport from Bridger's house, but quickly dismissed that idea. He risked Skipper telling the captain he'd left the island, and Lucas didn't like the idea of lying outright to Bridger. Instead he'd decided to drive to the rendezvous from work, but that involved "borrowing" the captain's car. The problem was Bridger had wanted to take the motorcycle to work this morning, and it would have seemed suspicious if Lucas had asked to take the car instead. Lucas still wasn't terribly confident of his ability to drive the motorcycle, but at this point he had no choice.

"Hi, Lisa," Lucas said to Bridger's receptionist, a gorgeous young woman who was way out of league for a 17-year-old computer geek. As usual, he let out a quick sigh of frustration when he saw her.

"Hello, Lucas," Lisa chirped, but her welcoming smile quickly faded to a frown. "Are you feeling okay? You look a little sick."

"I'm fine," Lucas said with his patented weak smile. "Is the captain here?"

"No, you just missed him. He has a lunch meeting today."

"Damn," Lucas muttered, fully aware of the captain's lunch plans. "Oh, sorry."

"It's okay," Lisa said with a laugh at his mild swearing. "Can I help you with something?"

"No," Lucas said with feigned disappointment. "I just left some important papers in his car. I need them for a presentation this afternoon." He prayed she didn't know that Bridger had taken the motorcycle to work, then grimaced as he saw the captain's helmet perched on a chair behind the receptionist.

"The keys are probably in his office," said Lisa, apparently none too observant. "Why don't you go and look?"

"Oh," Lucas said in mock surprise, as though the thought of getting the keys himself hadn't occurred to him. "Good idea."

He quickly stepped around Lisa's desk and into the captain's office. The keys were sitting on a chair near the door.

"Found them," Lucas said as he left Bridger's office. "Thanks for your help."

"No problem. I'll see you later."

"Later," Lucas answered.

"Hey, Lucas." He stopped in the doorway. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

Lucas, his back still to Lisa, rolled his eyes. Then he forced the smile back on.

"Well, maybe I'm coming down with something. But I'm sure I'll feel better after some sleep this weekend." By the weekend, Lucas thought, he should be feeling much better indeed.

"Okay, well take care of yourself, kiddo."

Lucas cringed. The captain really needed to stop using that nickname around others.

xxxXXXxxx

It took nearly an hour to get to the airport, and Lucas was glad he'd allowed plenty of time to make the drive. He'd had one close call on the trip, when he'd been slow to react to a car changing lanes in front of him, but otherwise he'd handled the bike just fine. Now he sat perched on the motorcycle, his arms crossed over the bars and his chin resting on top of his hands. He had stopped across the street from the airport and for the past 20 minutes had been watching cars pulling in and out of the private entrance.

As expected, it was busy at the airport, with chauffeured cars pulling in and out of the security gate at regular intervals. Lucas wondered why his father had picked this location, as it seemed too crowded to really be safe. But perhaps his father was flying in specifically for this meeting and hoped to leave as soon as they'd had a chance to talk. Still, for his father's sake, Lucas didn't feel comfortable with all the people coming and going.

Five minutes before he was supposed to meet his father, Lucas pulled the bike up to the security gate and punched in the code. The chain-link fence slid apart with a rumbling clink, and he slowly drove through as soon as a gap wide enough for the bike was open. It was a small airport, used exclusively for private planes that belonged to flying enthusiasts, charter companies and business executives who could afford their own jets. The hangars were at Lucas' left as he drove by, and most of them were bustling with activity. Loud dance music blared from one hangar where three mechanics were working on a plane. To Lucas' right were several runways, where planes were lined up five deep, presumably to pick up important clients for the UEO festivities.

Hangar K was at the end of the row, and the large doors were closed when Lucas drove up. He got off the bike, took of his helmet and stood in front of the hangar for a few moments, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans and taking deep breaths to calm himself. It didn't work.

Slowly, his heart racing, Lucas walked up to a smaller door to the left of the main hangar, and tried the handle. The door was unlocked, and he walked in to find a dark, empty office. Through a window in the office Lucas could see the hangar itself, where he could make out a twin-engine plane in the dim light that came from half a dozen windows high up on the walls. Lucas walked into the hangar, his steps echoing off the walls. The place looked and felt deserted.

"Hello?" he called, cringing at the quaver in his voice. He twirled around at the sound of footsteps coming from behind him.

"Lucas, it's good to see you."

Lucas frowned at the person standing in front of him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Where's my father?"

Jordan Mathers had been his father's personal assistant for years, but it seemed preposterous to Lucas that she would have been part of his escape and subsequent hiding. Yet here she was, standing where his father should be.

"He couldn't come. I'm sorry," she said, and offered him that same pitiful smile that he had always hated. The anxiety that had been coursing through him quickly turned to a hot anger.

"He said he'd be here. Where is he?"

"I know, Lucas, and he feels terrible that he couldn't come," Mathers said, her voice dripping with apology that just angered him further. "But it's not safe for him. Blame me that he couldn't make it. I wouldn't let him come. It was too risky."

The disappointment was devastating. Lucas turned his head away suddenly as he felt warm tears spring to his eyes. He blinked rapidly a few times, then said, continuing to look away, "I need to see him."

"And you will. Just not right now," she said. "Look, I don't have much time, but I need the file your father sent you. It's got important information that could save lives."

Lucas stared disbelieving at Mathers. She was back to wearing the same tacky gold jewelry and pastel blouses he remembered from countless vid-link conversations with her, when he'd asked to speak with his father and she'd been his only connection. Once again, she was running interference for Lucas' father, but he wasn't going to take it this time.

"You want me to just give you that file?"

"Yes, Lucas, your father needs it. His life is in danger as long as that file can get into the wrong hands. Please, for his sake, give to me." She was pleading with him, lines of worry wrinkling her mouth and forehead.

"No," he said.

"No?"

"Not until I see my father."

"Lucas, it's too dangerous."

"I don't care," he said, and folded his arms over his chest. His anger was building and he could feel his cheeks flushing. "My father doesn't want anything to do with me for years, and then he lets me think he's dead, but no, he's alive and for the first time he actually seems to give a shit about me, but I can't tell anyone, I've got to keep all these secrets."

His voice was rising and he was nearly yelling, the words echoing off the hangar walls.

"And then I find this, this file, this document, and it says that my father is responsible for this massive destruction and environmental ruin and eight deaths! My father is responsible for eight deaths!" Lucas yelled, his voice breaking, as he waved a small disk with the file in one hand. "And now I'm supposed to just give you this file and go back home and keep doing this? Keep pretending like everything's okay and mourning my father who's really alive and wondering what the hell is going on? I don't think so. No, you're not getting this file!"

"Lucas, please-"

"That's enough."

Lucas whirled around at the booming voice behind him and saw that a man had stepped from behind the plane. He wasn't large, but he had broad shoulders and a furious frown on his face, and he was holding a serrated knife in his right hand. Lucas looked quickly back at Mathers, and saw that she was staring at the floor now, but she didn't seem surprised.

"Who are you?" Lucas asked, his anger replaced by nervous fear.

"That doesn't matter," the man said. "Look, kid, your father's dead."

It took a moment for the words to register.

"What?" Lucas said, barely whispering.

"He's dead. He died six weeks ago in the explosion. He never made it off that damned ocean floor."

"No. No, he escaped. He got out in time. He's been hiding. He told me."

"You're father didn't tell you anything. She did," the man said, and he pointed with his knife at Mathers.

The knife forgotten, Lucas spun around and faced Mathers.

"What is he talking about?"

The woman didn't answer at first, instead running a clearly shaking hand through her hair. Without looking up, she said quietly, "I'm sorry, Lucas. I'm so sorry."

"Why? Why are you sorry? What the hell is going on?" Lucas demanded.

"I made it all up," she said, her eyes still locked on the floor. "I sent you those messages. I made you believe your dad was still alive, but he isn't. He's dead, Lucas."

"No, you're wrong," Lucas insisted, but his voice was shaking now. "There's no way. I know my father. He sent those messages."

Mathers finally looked up at him at that, and he could see once again the pity in her eyes. She knew as well as he did that his father wouldn't have sent those messages. Lucas suddenly felt weak and dizzy, like all the blood had rushed out of his head, and he thought he might fall down. He reached behind him to grab at the plane and steady himself. His head was buzzing.

"Enough with the apologies," the man said impatiently. "We need that document, kid. Hand it over now and we won't hurt you."

Lucas shook his head, barely understanding the words. They wouldn't hurt him? What more could they possibly do to him?

"Here," he said, his voice flat. "Take it." He held out the disk in front of him, not bothering to look as the man grabbed it. He heard Mathers sigh loudly.

"I'm sorry we had to do this, Lucas," she said. "We needed that file. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Lucas didn't say anything.

"How do we know the file's even on there?" the man asked.

"It's there," Lucas said.

"How do we know you didn't keep a copy of it for yourself?"

"Please, Brian, leave him alone," Mathers said.

"I told you not to say my name," the man, Brian, hissed. "And how do we know for sure that the kid didn't hang onto a copy?"

"His father asked him to delete any other copies," Mathers said. "He wouldn't disobey his own dad."

Lucas laughed humorlessly at that.

"I thought you knew me better than that," Lucas said.

Brian spun toward Lucas. "What's that supposed to mean? You have more copies out there?"

"You really think I'd have trusted my old man with the only copy of a document that implicated him in a global disaster and eight deaths?" Lucas asked, an unpleasant smile curling his lips. He stared defiantly at the man. "Oh yeah, I've got a copy. Several copies, in fact."

"Damn it, Jordan, I told you we couldn't trust the kid," Brian spat, turning his back on Lucas to yell at Mathers. Lucas jumped at his only chance at escape.

With a quick step forward, he shoved the man toward Mathers, catching them both off guard. Before they'd even hit the ground, he was racing around the back of the plane. He could see an exit at the far end of the hangar, the dull green light showing clearly in the dim shadows. He ran for the door. He was 20 feet away, 15 feet, 10 feet, and his shoes slid on a grease spill on the floor. He stumbled for a moment, thrusting out his arms to keep his balance but never stopping his forward momentum. He was 5 feet from the door.

He was reaching out his arms, grabbing for the door handle, when the man tackled him from behind and sent them both sliding across the floor and crashing into the exit door. The wind was knocked out of Lucas and he lay gasping for a moment before he felt two hands lifting him, forcing him back against the door. Gripping his shoulders, the man shook Lucas violently so his head was tossed from side to side. With a powerful shove he thrust Lucas at the door. The side of Lucas' head cracked against the doorframe once, twice, each time sending bursts of crackling light across his eyes. On the third hit, Lucas felt one sharp stab of pain behind his left eye, and he slumped forward, unconscious.


	10. Chapter 10

Lucas awoke to find himself lying in an awkward heap, one arm pressed at an uncomfortable angle under his chest, his head wedged in a corner. Keeping his eyes closed because it somehow seemed like a good idea, it took him several minutes to get his bearings as many discomforts competed for his attention at once. His head throbbed in a steady rhythm behind his eyes, with an especially painful thumping at his left temple. His thoughts were unfocused, flitting away almost as soon as they formed, and he couldn't figure out where he was or how he'd gotten there. Noises assaulted him – a deep rumbling from below, and from above what sounded like a high-pitched squeak and strangely reminded him of Darwin. But the overriding sensation, the discomfort that was quickly pushing all others aside, was growing nausea. Lucas groaned and shifted.

"I think he's waking up." Lucas was finally able to identify the squeak coming from above as a voice, but he couldn't make sense of the words. He rolled, turning onto his side, and shifted his head in the direction of the voice. His body fought the movement with a new roll of nausea, and he groaned again.

"Lucas, can you hear me?" He squeezed his eyes tighter shut, trying to fight back the dizziness and force his head to stop spinning. "Damn it, Brian, I think you might have really hurt him. Come on, Lucas, wake up."

The words started to break through the fuzz in Lucas' head, and he slowly, cautiously, opened his eyes to look up at the voice. He moaned as brilliant white light stabbed at him, and immediately shut his eyes again.

"That's good, Lucas," the voice shouted, and he winced at the loud sound. "How are you feeling? Are you okay? Can you talk to me, Lucas?"

He swallowed hard.

"Gonna be sick," Lucas said, his voice barely a whisper, the words thick in his dry mouth.

"What?"

"Sick," Lucas repeated, clenching his teeth. "I'm gonna be sick."

"Stop the car!" the voice screeched.

"What?" another voice yelled.

"Stop the damned car! He's going to throw up all over the backseat!"

Lucas had no time to brace himself for the sudden stop, and his body flew forward off the backseat of the car until he was lying crumpled on the floor. Before he could even begin to pick himself up, two hands were grabbing him by the arms and dragging him out of the car. He landed on all fours in the dirt, the rapid, sudden movements nearly forcing him to black out again.

"I thought you said-" a man started to say, and then Lucas was throwing up. The man jumped back to avoid messing his shoes.

Lucas could never remember feeling as miserable as he did at that moment. The world was spinning so revoltingly around him that he could barely keep his balance on his hands and knees, and every tiny movement seemed to set off his nausea anew. He wasn't sure how long he crouched there, heaving into the dirt and gravel beneath him. When he finally felt like the immediate sickness had passed, he crawled a few feet to the side and sat back on his knees, coughing and spitting to the side. His head hurt worse than ever, and he refused to open his eyes for fear of risking another flash of painful light.

"Here," said a woman's voice next to him. He recognized her this time. Jordan Mathers. "Drink this, you'll feel better."

Eyes still closed, Lucas raised a shaking arm and felt a bottle placed in his hand. He brought it to his lips and tasted water. After several swallows, he handed it back.

"Feel better?"

Lucas nodded, winced at the pain that slight movement brought on, and instead mumbled, "Yeah."

He heard feet shuffling about him and took a moment to really focus on his surroundings for the first time since he'd woken up. His thoughts were still muddy and unclear, but Lucas felt some mild relief that he was able to remember how he'd been injured. He quickly and forcefully pushed back thoughts about what he'd learned this afternoon. Now was not the time to think about his father.

Lucas risked opening his eyes and once again moaned out loud at the sudden flash of pain, but he didn't close them again. He blinked rapidly, then squinted ahead through the tears that had filled his eyes. Lucas raised a hand to his face, probing tentatively at the side of his head that hurt the worst, and wasn't surprised to find sticky blood under his fingers. Looking down, he could see blood on his white T-shirt, and imagined he must look a mess.

Turning his head slightly, Lucas could see a sedan behind him, both passenger side doors wide open. They were on what looked like a small, two-lane road with only a handful of cars passing by. Lucas was just planning an escape, trying to figure out how he was going to muster the energy to quickly get to his feet and run into the street to get the attention of a passing car, when the woman appeared at his side again.

"I'm sorry he hit you. I told him not to hurt you," Mathers said, cringing in sympathy as she looked into his face. She reached out with a piece of wet cloth, dabbing at his head and trying to clean off some of the blood from his cheek and forehead.

"Here, put this on," she said. She handed him a hooded sweatshirt that zipped up the front. Lucas stared at her, confused. "Just do it. I'll explain when we're back in the car."

When he still didn't move, Mathers opened up the sweatshirt herself and began to slide his left arm into a sleeve. Lucas frowned and put it on the rest of the way himself. She zipped up the front and pulled the hood over his head, then gave him an appraising stare.

"Well, I guess that'll do. Come on, let's get you in the car."

She stood up and gently tugged at Lucas' arm. He stumbled under a new wave of dizziness when he was only halfway up, and she wrapped her other arm around his waist to steady him. Lucas closed his eyes, feeling the nausea creep back, and forced himself to take several slow, deep breaths. His legs wobbled uneasily beneath him, and he felt as though he might pass out.

"Hang on," Mathers said, and turned him around. She walked him a few steps back to the car and helped him ease into the front passenger seat. He dropped heavily into the seat, wincing as the car door was slammed shut. Lucas leaned his head back against the seat, focusing only on breathing and keeping the nausea and dizziness at bay. He jolted when he suddenly felt something sharp press against his neck.

"Almost forgot about me, didn't you?" Brian said from the backseat. Lucas opened his eyes and swallowed uneasily, feeling the knife press just slightly into his skin at the movement.

"Put that away," Mathers said, glaring at the man as she got into the driver's seat.

"You feel this, kid?" Brian said, ignoring Mathers. "Well, pay attention. We're going to drive to your house, and I need you to be very well behaved. You understand?"

Lucas nodded slowly.

"Good," the man said. "When we get to the ferry, you make sure you play along with whatever we say. If you do anything to arouse suspicion, I'll use this knife. I don't really care who gets hurt. I can cut you just as easily as I can cut the guy on the ferry, or anyone else we might run into. Got it?"

Lucas nodded again. He took a shaky breath when the knife was removed and sagged back against the seat. Mathers started the car, and they pulled back onto the road.

They drove for several minutes in silence, Lucas keeping his eyes closed both to escape the light that still hurt and to focus his thoughts as much as he could. He still wasn't thinking clearly, and his muddled state frustrated and frightened him. He needed to be able to think straight if he was going to get out of this, but he couldn't even begin to concentrate well enough to form a plan. He gave up after awhile and let his thoughts stray at random, resting his aching head against the side window.

"Why?" he found himself asking after they'd been driving for some time, returning to the only topic that he seemed to be able to think clearly about. The question seemed to take Mathers by surprise, and she darted a quick glance at him before looking back at the road.

"Why what?"

"Why'd you do it," Lucas said, the words soft and slurred but understandable.

"I'm sorry, Lucas, I had no choice."

"You had to protect your career. I get that," Lucas said, and truthfully he did, even if he didn't approve of their reasoning. "But my father…why did you have to send those messages? Why the game?"

"We needed to get the file from you," Mathers said patiently.

"I know, but why all the deception? Why not just break into the house and steal it from me? Why not just kill me if I was the only one who had it?"

Part of his mind told him he shouldn't be giving them any ideas, but Lucas was well past caring. He needed to understand how anyone could be so cruel as to lie like Mathers had.

"Kill you?" she asked, sounding truly shocked. "We never wanted to kill you."

"Speak for yourself," Brian muttered from behind, but Mathers ignored him.

"And we didn't just steal it because we didn't even know if you had it. I'm sorry for what I did, Lucas, but we had to be sure you had the file. Your father said he was going to give it to you, but until you sent that message, I didn't know if he'd had time before he died."

Lucas didn't respond. He wanted to tell her that nothing would justify what she'd done, but he didn't have the energy, and he imagined it wouldn't make a difference anyway. They finished the drive to the ferry in silence.

As they pulled up to the pier where the ferry was docked, Brian brought out his knife again and touched just the tip to Lucas' neck.

"Don't forget what I said, kid," the man said. "You're on your best behavior."

Mathers rolled down her window as she drove up and Skipper approached the car, peering into the front seat with a small frown of confusion. He seemed not to recognize Lucas right away in the hooded sweatshirt.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" he asked Mathers when he'd reached her open window.

"You must be Skipper," she said with a welcoming smile. "Lucas told me about you."

Skipper looked confused for a moment, then cocked his head to the side and apparently was able to see enough of Lucas' face to figure out who was in the car.

"I'm Cynthia Carver," Mathers said. "Lucas' mother."

Despite himself, Lucas' eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Oh, well, it's nice to meet you," Skipper said, and touched his hand to his hat. "That you in there, Lucas?"

When Lucas didn't respond right away, Mathers spoke up for him. "He's not too happy with me right now," she said. "He's staying with me and my husband for a week, and, well, I think he's grown rather fond of this island. He doesn't really want to go."

Skipper frowned mildly at this, and twisted his head some more to peek into the backseat of the car. He gave a tentative smile to the man presented as Lucas' stepfather, and then looked back at Lucas.

"You feeling okay, Lucas?" Skipper asked, apparently concerned by Lucas' silence.

"I'm fine," Lucas said quietly when he felt a kick in the back of his seat. "I, um, I think I may be catching a cold."

Mathers turned to stare at him in surprise.

"You didn't tell me you weren't feeling well, sweetie," she said, recovering quickly. Lucas shrugged. Mathers turned back to Skipper with her own shrug, and smiled weakly at him. "I swear, sometimes I think my son wouldn't tell me if he was dying."

Skipper narrowed his eyes slightly but didn't say anything.

"Well, anyway, we need to get going soon. Do you think you can take us to the island? Lucas was supposed to pack this morning, but, well, you know…"

"The next ferry isn't supposed to leave for another couple hours," Skipper said.

"Oh," Mathers said simply. "Well, do you think you could help us out this once? We really are in kind of a rush. Our plane leaves in just a couple hours."

Skipper stared thoughtfully at Mathers a moment, his eyes drifting over to Lucas again, and finally nodded.

"Yeah, sure, I guess so," he said. "Pull onto the ferry."

"Thank you so much," Mathers said. "We really appreciate it."

Skipper grunted and walked toward the ferry to start the boat.

"He suspects something," Brian said as soon as Mathers had rolled up her window.

"We're fine," she said. "He's taking us there, isn't he?"

"Yeah, but he knows something's wrong."

"Look, it doesn't matter," Mathers said. "We'll be off the island before he can do anything about it. What's important is getting there."

"We should have just taken a boat on our own," Brian muttered.

"It's too late to second guess now," Mathers said, clearly frustrated. "Anyway, it wouldn't have been a problem if you hadn't hit Lucas. The guy was only suspicious because of how Lucas looks."

The car was jolted as the ferry jutted off from the dock, and their growing argument was cut off. The trio sat in silence for several minutes before Brian spoke up again.

"I still don't see why you wouldn't let me get a gun," he said, barely loud enough for Mathers and Lucas to hear in the front seat. Mathers sighed as though they'd had this conversation more times than she cared for.

"You know how I feel about guns," she said tensely. "And right about now, I'm pretty glad you don't have one. You'd have probably shot Lucas instead of just hitting him in the hangar. He'd be dead now, and we'd be on our own in finding the other file."

"Fine by me," Brian mumbled.

They continued to argue for the rest of the ferry trip, but Lucas tuned them out. His head still throbbed incessantly, but his mind was clearing and he no longer felt as sick. If he closed his eyes he could ignore the way the world still spun dizzily. He sat in relative peace, keeping his head clear and unfocused, until they docked at the island, and they drove off the ferry without so much as a wave to Skipper. Lucas wondered idly if Skipper intended to wait to return them to the mainland.

Lucas had to give Mathers directions to Bridger's house on the island. It occurred to Lucas that they must have been studying him over the past several weeks if they knew about the island and Skipper and likely countless other details of his life. As they passed by the Desmond house, Lucas saw three of the children racing around the front yard. They were home-schooled by their mother, and as such didn't get a typical summer break, so he imagined they must be done with the lessons for the day. They all stopped to stare at the car as it drove by. It wasn't often that strange people arrived on the island, and it didn't look like they recognized Lucas. He hoped they wouldn't follow the car to the captain's house. He didn't want them to get caught up in a dangerous situation.

When they pulled into the driveway, Lucas opened his door and started to climb out, but was immediately struck by a new wave of dizziness. He clung to the car door as his legs shook and bowed his head. Brian grabbed Lucas' arm painfully, and with the woman on his other side, Lucas was escorted into the house, his legs barely keeping him standing.

Inside the house all of them were surprised to hear the phone ringing. Lucas looked up at Mathers in question.

"Let it go," Brian said. "No one's supposed to be here." He shoved Lucas forward.

Lucas stumbled down the hall to his room, pressing against the walls to steady himself. By the time he got to his bedroom, he felt light-headed and immediately sank into the chair in front of his desk.

"Get up," Brian said, pushing Lucas out of the chair. Lucas stared at him in confusion. He'd assumed they would want him to delete the file himself. Apparently expecting his question, the man added, "I'll find it myself. You're not the only computer whiz, you know, and I don't want you to accidentally 'forget' about any hidden files."

Lucas shrugged and got up, moving to sit on the bed instead. He glimpsed his reflection in a mirror across from the bed, and pushed back the hood of the sweatshirt. His left eye was swollen and red, and while Mathers had managed to wipe off some of the blood, his hair was still plastered to his head and an angry welt was still oozing just above his left temple. Lucas lowered his head into his hands, fighting the urge to just lie down and sleep.

Mathers, who had stayed at the bedroom door, kept darting nervous glances toward the front of the house.

"Hurry, Brian," she said tensely.

"Calm down, we've got plenty of time," he replied casually. He quickly bypassed Lucas' security systems.

"Maybe," she said, "but if that man on the ferry tipped off Captain Bridger-"

"You're the one who said not to worry," Brian reminded her. "And even if he did, we'll be gone long before anyone can get here. Now shut up and let me work."

They were silent for several minutes, until Brian clapped his hands and announced, "Got it. The kid only had one copy."

"Good, let's get out of here," Mathers said.

"Hold on, I've got one more thing to check out," Brian said. Lucas looked up and watched as the man accessed his messages.

"Wait-" he started.

"Look, kid, I'm just deleting these messages from your so-called father," Brian said. "No sense leaving that kind of evidence around, and I can't imagine you'd want to keep them anyway."

Lucas tensed and watched carefully as Brian quickly deleted the files, then began to look for the messages that Lucas had sent in return. Lucas inched slowly further down the bed, away from the desk. He shot a quick glance at Mathers, who was leaning her head out the door to watch the front of the house.

"Hey, what's this?" Brian asked. "These messages were sent 30 minutes ago."

"What are you talking about?" Mathers asked, leaving her post at the doorway to look over Brian's shoulder.

Lucas didn't wait for Brian's response. He leapt from the bed and raced toward Mathers, shoving her aside as he ran out of the room. Lucas barreled straight into the hallway wall in his hurry, grunting as his shoulder slammed into the hard surface. He quickly regained his balance and pushed off the wall to sprint toward the front door. If he could reach the door, he could call for help. He might even make it to the Desmonds.

But Lucas never even got close to the front door. Brian once again tackled him from behind, and they both fell to the carpeted floor. Lucas immediately rose to his hands and knees, trying to crawl away before Brian could wrestle him down again. Lucas reached out in front of him, knocking over a table, and his fingers found a heavy sculpture of a dolphin. Without thinking, Lucas rolled onto his back and swung the sculpture blindly. He managed to connect with Brian's side and the man grunted in pain. But Brian wasn't stopped, and Lucas saw that he had the knife out again. He leered furiously at Lucas and drove the knife down. Lucas rolled to his right at the same moment and escaped a stab to his belly. The knife sliced open his left side and Lucas yelped in pain, but he managed to continue rolling until he was out from under Brian.

He was on his knees, gripping his side and trying to stagger to his feet, when Brian knocked him down yet again. He was weak, his head spinning and his side throbbing. Brian easily pinned Lucas on his back with an arm across his neck and the knife poised over his chest.

"Stop it!" yelled Mathers. "You'll kill him!"

"Of course I'm gonna kill him," Brian yelled back, glaring at Lucas. "He ruined us. He must've sent that damn file to 30 different UEO officials."

"Let's just get out of here," Mathers said, and Lucas could tell she was crying. "Please, let's just leave. Don't kill him."

Brian ignored her. He pressed his arm into Lucas' neck until he could barely breathe. Lucas kicked his legs and twisted beneath the man, trying helplessly to get away.

"How'd you do it?" demanded Brian. "How'd you send those damned messages? What the hell were you thinking?"

Lucas was consumed by fear and didn't even bother looking at his captor. His struggles were growing weaker. His energy was fading fast. He felt himself growing faint, from blood loss or his head injury, he wasn't sure. He didn't even move as Brian, knife still in hand, began groping Lucas' pockets until he found what he was looking for. He pulled a PAL out of the back pocket of Lucas' jeans.

"You used this, didn't you?" Brian insisted, and threw the PAL across the room in frustration. "You stupid, miserable kid. You didn't even trust your own dad, so you set it up so you could send that damned file to the whole world if something went wrong. Well, looks like you won. Too bad for you."

And with that, Brian lifted the knife again. Lucas clenched his eyes shut and turned his head away at the last minute, but it didn't help. The pain was sharp and sudden as the blade entered his shoulder. Lucas cried out and his eyes shot open unwillingly. That was when he saw Mathers. Brian was snarling at Lucas, ready to wrench the knife out and stab him again, when Mathers swung the dolphin sculpture. It connected with a blunt crack against Brian's skull, and the man toppled over immediately, his body lying in a heap across Lucas' legs.

Mathers collapsed with a sob next to Brian's body, but made no other movement. Lucas kicked furiously, using his legs and one arm to push himself backward and out from under Brian. He nearly screamed from the spectacular pain that shot through his shoulder at the movement. He managed to push himself just a few feet back before he fell back to the floor again. The stab wounds were pulsing in pain now and he couldn't have said where exactly he hurt the most.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there gasping. The only sounds were his own wheezing breaths and Mathers' quiet sobs. Through hazy vision, Lucas could dimly see her sitting against the back of the couch, her legs drawn up to her chest. She was staring straight ahead.

"Help me," Lucas whispered, but she didn't move and he wasn't sure if she had even heard him. He tried to speak again, but couldn't make his mouth work. So instead he lay there, consumed in pain and unsure what was going to happen next. The phone rang.

Lucas turned wearily toward the vid-link screen. He tried to raise himself up, thinking he might be able to crawl to the phone, but he fell back almost immediately with a loud groan. The ring of the phone and Lucas' groan seemed to shake Mathers out of her stupor, and she blinked and looked at him. She stole a glance at Brian but quickly looked away. After wiping her nose and eyes on a shirt sleeve, Mathers got shakily to her feet and moved to stand over Lucas.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, so quiet Lucas could barely make out the words. He blinked rapidly at her, the room growing even dimmer. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

Without another word, she left. Lucas lay quietly, listening to his own harsh breathing and watching as the darkness collected at the sides of his vision. He closed his eyes and let the darkness claim him.

xxxXXXxxx

"L-l-lu…Lucas…please, Lucas, wake up."

He stirred at his name, turning his head toward the voice. Lucas blinked his eyes open and saw a cascade of blond hair bent over him.

"Please, don't die, you're going to be fine." It was a girl's voice, and she was clearly crying, sniffling and hiccuping through the words. Lucas felt bad for her, and tried to raise his right hand to her but couldn't find the strength.

"I'm okay," he tried to say, but no sound came out of his mouth. His body felt terribly cold and heavy. Then suddenly there was a sharp pain at his side, and he moaned.

"Lucas!" The blond head swiveled toward his face. "Lucas, you're awake! It's Cheryl. Cheryl Desmond. You're going to be okay. Help is coming. Do you hear me, Lucas? Can you say something?"

"I know who you are," he whispered, and was relieved when his voice cooperated this time. Cheryl raised her eyebrows in confusion. "Cheryl. I know your last name."

She continued to stare bemusedly at him, then realized what he meant. She tried to laugh but it came out as a strangled croak in her near panic. Lucas could see that her cheeks were wet with tears.

"Don't cry," he muttered, suddenly very tired. He let his eyes drop closed. "It's okay. Everything's fine."

"Lucas, don't close your eyes," she insisted. He was reluctant to obey, but he felt so bad at her obvious distress. "Good, just keep your eyes open, okay? Please stay awake. They'll be here soon."

Lucas nodded slowly and rolled his eyes so he was staring at the ceiling. The room was swaying gently. He felt strangely at peace. And then there was that horrible pain in his side again.

"Ow!" he yelled and tried miserably to move away from the pain.

"I'm sorry," Cheryl said desperately. "But you're bleeding and I have to keep pressure on the cut. I'm so sorry. It's the only thing I can do."

Lucas moaned and turned his eyes to the ceiling again. The pressure on his side seemed to have ignited the hurts in the rest of his body, and his entire chest throbbed until he could no longer identify the source of his pain. He felt so cold, and he realized he was shaking.

"Where are your parents?" Lucas asked, his words so slurred that he wasn't sure she would be able to understand him.

"They went shopping today," Cheryl said. "They left me in charge. But don't worry, the others are coming. I called Skipper, and he said they'd be here soon. Captain Bridger, I mean, and the police."

Lucas nodded.

"Do you…is there water?" he asked.

"I can't," Cheryl said. "I mean, I need to stay here and keep pressure on your cut. I'm sorry. But it won't be much longer."

"It's okay," he slurred. His eyes began to drift closed again.

Cheryl opened her mouth to respond, but her head popped up as they both heard the front door bang open and footsteps running into the house.


	11. Chapter 11

Bridger had never before been so happy that Skipper was an incurable busybody.

His urgent phone call had come while Bridger was meeting with the weapons defense team at the UEO labs. The little bit of information that Skipper had provided – that Lucas' mom and stepfather had arrived at the island, and that Lucas looked none too happy about it – had been enough for Bridger to call an immediate halt to the meeting and dart back to his office. From what little Lucas had mentioned about his stepfather, Bridger had no intention of letting that man take the teen anywhere, even if his mom was involved. Bridger had called his house, hardly surprised when there was no answer. When he'd learned that Lucas had taken the keys to his motorcycle, his concern had only increased. Bridger hadn't wasted any time calling Westphalen. They had left the UEO labs five minutes later.

He'd never expected to find the horror that he now faced in his own living room.

"Lucas!" Bridger saw him a split second after walking through the wide open front door. After recognizing the boy, the next thing Bridger noticed was the blood. It was everywhere, seeping into the white carpet, the sofa, Lucas' clothes. He could even smell it.

Bridger ran to Lucas' side, barely aware of Cheryl sitting nearby or the other body in the room. "Lucas, my God, what the hell happened here?"

"What did they do to you?" That was Westphalen. She had dropped by Lucas' other side, crouching next to Cheryl, and already had a hand pressed against his neck to check his pulse. Bridger saw that Cheryl was crying softly, her own arms slick with blood nearly up to her elbows as she pressed a cloth into Lucas' side.

"You're going to be fine," Bridger said, gripping Lucas' right shoulder. He moved his hand up and ran it over Lucas' forehead, through Lucas' hair. The boy's face was pale and gray, even his lips nearly devoid of color. His blue eyes seemed dull and unfocused. "You'll be just fine."

"I know. I'm okay," Lucas whispered. He tried to smile at Bridger and failed miserably.

"My God, Nathan, the knife," Westphalen muttered, looking ill at the weapon still protruding from Lucas' shoulder. Bridger felt his stomach flip. The doctor shook herself slightly and moved into action, quickly assessing the rest of Lucas' body for further injuries. She had Cheryl briefly remove the cloth from Lucas' side so she could see that wound, then told the girl to keep applying pressure. She turned Lucas' head and studied the cut there. Most of the left side of his face was swollen and painted with dried blood.

"How does it look?" Bridger asked.

"How do you think it looks?" Westphalen spat angrily. She shook her head and gave Bridger a meaningful look. "I'm sorry. He's been stabbed twice and he has a head injury. But if we can get him out of here soon, he'll be fine."

"He'll be out of here in 15 minutes," Bridger said. "Skipper said a helicopter is on its way to airlift him to the hospital."

"You had to live on an island," Westphalen muttered, then added in a louder voice, "Stay here. I'm going to see to this man." She moved next to the second body on the floor. Bridger noted distantly that it most definitely was not Lucas' stepfather, and his mother was nowhere in sight.

When the doctor crouched next to Lucas again, her face was unreadable.

"How is he?" Bridger asked.

"He's dead," Westphalen said curtly. "Lucas, I need you to tell me if you're injured anywhere else."

Lucas didn't answer, his gaze unfocused but directed at the dead body near his feet. He began shaking in earnest, until his teeth were almost chattering. His face was pasty, his forehead misted with sweat.

"Lucas, look at me. Come on, focus." Westphalen's voice was sharp and demanding. She placed her hands on either side of his face, forcing his gaze toward her. "Stay with me. Can you understand me?"

He blinked at her in confusion, as if waiting for the words to make sense. Then he nodded slowly.

"Good," she said. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Lucas shook his head no. Bridger saw his eyes, pupils painfully dilated, sweep to the right, where the captain was still kneeling at his side, and then back to the left. He looked down, and as if noticing it for the first time, stared curiously at the knife in his shoulder.

"Take it out," he muttered, his voice shaking.

"I can't, not right now," Westphalen said.

"Take it out," he repeated.

"Lucas-"

"Take it out." He was pleading now, his voice hitching in panic. "Please, get it out of me." He started to struggle, lifting his right arm as though to remove the knife himself.

"Lucas, stop it," Westphalen demanded. "If we take it out now, the wound will start bleeding. You can't lose that much blood. Do you hear me? We can't take it out now. You have to wait until the hospital."

"No," he insisted. "Get it out!"

"Damn it," Westphalen swore as she and Bridger tried to restrain the boy without hurting him further. "He's in shock, Nathan. It's the blood loss. He's confused. I need you to calm him down before he injures himself."

Bridger nodded and grasped Lucas' right hand. "Lucas? Look at me, kiddo." He placed his other hand on Lucas' face, turning his head away from the offending knife. "You're going to be just fine. Just look at me, and you'll be okay."

Lucas' eyes started to swivel back to the knife.

"Lucas, can you tell me what happened here? Who did this to you?"

Lucas seemed almost reluctant to stop looking at the knife, but he finally turned his eyes toward Bridger's face.

"My father…" he started.

"What about your father?" Bridger asked.

"He's dead," Lucas said. His eyes filled with tears. "My father's dead."

Bridger frowned in confusion, but didn't ask for further information.

"I know," he said, squeezing Lucas' hand. "I know, and I'm sorry."

Lucas nodded and closed his eyes until tears leaked and dropped down his cheeks. Bridger leaned close to Lucas, running his hand through his hair, doing what little he could to comfort the distressed boy.

Westphalen stood and gathered a blanket from the couch, which she used to cover Lucas and chase away some of the chills. From the kitchen she retrieved an armful of dish towels and began carefully packing the area around the knife. Cheryl continued to press on the wound at Lucas' side, adding more towels as blood soaked through each layer.

"Lucas, what happened here?" Bridger asked again.

"Frodo," Lucas said simply, as though the answer was obvious.

"Frodo?"

"They wanted Frodo. I gave it to them." Lucas laughed uneasily. "I gave it to everyone."

Bridger glanced at Westphalen, who shook her head and continued to delicately treat the shoulder injury.

"I don't understand," Bridger said. "What's Frodo?"

"Lord of the Rings," Cheryl supplied.

"What?"

Cheryl looked up, as though surprised anyone had heard her.

"Frodo. He's a character in Lord of the Rings."

"Lucas, what does Frodo have to do with what happened here?" Bridger asked.

Lucas just closed his eyes and moaned softly. His forehead crinkled in pain.

"Nathan, he's in no condition to explain anything right now," Westphalen said gently. "Try talking to him about something else."

"Like what?" Bridger asked, frustrated at feeling so helpless.

"It doesn't matter what. He's too out of it to understand anyway," she said. "Just talk to him, keep him awake, keep him distracted."

Bridger closed his mouth and frowned thoughtfully.

"Hey, Lucas. Hey, look at me," he said, and waited for the teen to open his eyes. "Did you see Lisa today?"

Lucas stared blankly at the captain before a look of mild panic flashed across his face.

"Your motorcycle," he slurred. "I'm sorry I took it, Sir. I know where it is."

Bridger smiled kindly.

"Don't worry about it, kiddo," he said. "That's not what I meant. Did you see Lisa?"

Lucas nodded slowly.

"Did you see what she was wearing?"

He shook his head.

"That little red skirt. You know the one I mean?"

Lucas looked confused again, then a small smile ghosted across his lips.

"The leather one?"

"That's the one," Bridger agreed. "It's about six inches too short."

"I don't think-" Lucas started, grimacing past a stab of pain, "she wears anything underneath it."

Bridger actually laughed out loud 

"You boys," Westphalen scolded. "She's not even here to defend herself."

"You know what she called me?" Lucas muttered, ignoring the doctor.

"What'd she call you?" Bridger asked.

"Kiddo," Lucas said with a scowl. His voice was growing fainter. "I blame you."

"Sorry about that, kid-…er, I mean, Lucas," Bridger said. "But you know she's way out of your league."

"Maybe," Lucas muttered. "Maybe not."

With that, he passed out.

xxxXXXxxx

The crowds had thinned out in the hospital waiting room, but Bridger still leaned against a wall as though there was no room to sit. He'd stopped pacing at least. He held a cup of coffee long gone cold, but he needed something in his hands, something to grip or tap his fingers against, and the cup was all he had.

It had taken nearly 45 minutes to get Lucas to the hospital, and to Bridger's great concern, the teen had remained unconscious for much of that time. Westphalen – along with two paramedics on the helicopter and several doctors and nurses at the hospital – had assured him that Lucas would be fine, that his blacking out was not unexpected or a problem. But until he saw the boy for himself, Bridger couldn't be at ease. He hadn't seen Lucas since he'd been shut into the helicopter with Westphalen, allowing the doctor to continue treating him while Bridger drove her car to the hospital. Once he'd arrived there, Lucas had already been raced into a trauma room.

Now, nearly five hours later, Bridger was wired on stress and caffeine. He rubbed a hand across his gritty eyes, and barely even aware of what he was doing, began pacing again.

As he marched across the room, Bridger tried to make some sort of sense of everything he'd learned in the past eight hours. He suspected that some of it would never make any sense. Surely no one could hope to understand exactly what kind of evil had attacked Lucas. Bridger knew now that it wasn't just the physical injuries of this afternoon – the evil had assaulted Lucas for weeks, taking advantage of a teenage boy at one of the most vulnerable times in his life. It was disgusting, and Bridger couldn't even begin to comprehend how or why it had happened.

Less than an hour after arriving at the hospital, Bridger had been mildly surprised to receive an emergency call from Noyce. Bridger understood that the near killing of a boy in a UEO captain's private home was no insignificant matter, but he hadn't expected it to draw the attention of the secretary general so quickly, even if the boy and captain were personal friends. But instead of calling in sympathy of concern, Noyce had been calling with information.

It turned out that Lucas had sent a file to no less than 36 top UEO officials, Noyce and Bridger included, that afternoon. Bridger hadn't seen his message before Skipper had called with word about Lucas' arrival with his so-called mother and stepfather. But several other recipients of the message had opened theirs and almost immediately recognized the file for what it was – a confidential and potentially very damaging UEO document. Noyce told Bridger that the report had been commissioned as part of a massive internal study on the environmental impacts of various UEO projects. Under the weight of bureaucracy, and perhaps with a few payoffs to lower-level UEO officials, no one had noticed when the report had never actually showed up. Meanwhile, the scientist responsible for overseeing the entire report, and for writing the World Power Project missive, was now dead.

After Lucas had sent his messages, it hadn't taken long to alert Noyce to the document. It had taken even less time to connect the document to the attack on Lucas and the dead man in Bridger's house.

Brian Sullivan. He had once been a widely respected physicist, and was now suspected of attempted murder and lying dead in a county morgue. His had been one of half a dozen names listed in the UEO report as responsible for what would likely be a global environmental disaster at the World Power Project. Lawrence Wolenczak was on the same list, along with three other scientists who had died when the project had failed. Bridger had recognized the last name on the list: Jordan Mathers. She was the one who regularly denied Lucas access to his father. Now she was missing.

The file called Frodo had been the least of the shocks that afternoon. Even as Bridger had been leaving his home to speed to the hospital, police had started swarming the house. After sweeping the living room where the actual attack had occurred, investigators had turned to Lucas' bedroom, and soon enough, to his computer. It was there that they had found more than a dozen messages Lucas had written to his father in the past six weeks. Further searching had revealed 13 messages saved on Lucas' laptop – 13 messages from his dead father. They'd been deleted, but not yet purged from the laptop's hard drive. One of the police investigators had read several short passages to Bridger over the phone, and the words had made the captain's stomach turn.

Now, pacing the hospital waiting room, Bridger found himself clenching his coffee cup until the cool liquid was splashing over the top and dribbling on his pants. He swore softly and marched to a trashcan to toss out the cup.

Bridger was only just beginning to figure out what had happened over the past several weeks that had led to the violence of this afternoon. He was beginning to figure it out, but he would never understand it.

"Nathan." Westphalen called softly to him from the other side of the waiting room. He walked directly to her, studying the tired lines around her eyes and the way her hair fell in messy strands around her face. He gripped her elbow and guided her to a seat, sitting down next to her.

"What can you tell me?"

"He's going to be fine," Westphalen said. That much Bridger already knew. Within an hour of arriving at the hospital, a doctor had told Bridger that Lucas' wounds were not life threatening. Westphalen glanced wearily around the waiting room. "Did everyone else go home?"

"Yeah," Bridger nodded. Almost all of Lucas' coworkers on the computer systems team had arrived at the hospital when they'd heard about the attack. Several former members of the seaQuest crew had also waited for a while, but they'd finally left when Bridger had informed them that it was unlikely they'd be able to see Lucas until the following day.

"He's really going to be all right," Westphalen repeated when she saw Bridger studying her. She squeezed his hand.

"Tell me everything," Bridger said.

She sighed.

"He lost a lot of blood, but you saw that for yourself," Westphalen began. "We had to give him a transfusion, but he shouldn't suffer any complications from the wound to his side. We were concerned at first that the shoulder injury might have been more serious. If it had sliced an artery or nerves there, Lucas might have been in trouble. He could have bled dangerously, or even lost some use of his left arm. But we were lucky, and the blade mostly got muscle tissue. He won't need surgery to repair it. It's a deep cut though, very deep, and we'll have to immobilize the arm for several weeks. He'll need some minor physical therapy. But he will recover."

Bridger nodded, closing his eyes in relief.

"We were actually more concerned about the head injury," Westphalen went on, and Bridger's head shot up in concern. "He'll be okay," she quickly reassured him. "But he's got a very serious concussion. We ran several tests, to rule out a skull fracture and make sure he had normal brain activity. The tests look good, but they'll keep him under strict observation for a day or two, just to be sure."

"To be sure of what, exactly?"

"Brain damage. But really, Nathan, we think that highly unlikely," Westphalen insisted when Bridger looked crushed. "This is standard procedure. Lucas took a hard hit to the head, but everything looks normal. I suspect he'll be pretty disoriented and have a nasty headache for a few days, but he'll be fine."

Bridger stared at her for a moment, trying to decide whether she was holding anything back, and decided to accept what she said.

"When can I see him?"

"In a few minutes," Westphalen said. "They're getting him settled in a private room, and you can sit with him then. They'll need to wake him up every few hours to test his cognizance, and he'd probably like to see a face he knows."

"Good," Bridger said, nodding.

"Nathan…" Westphalen started, then seemed unsure what exactly to say.

"What?"

"I heard about what happened. With the file and Lucas' father and the messages."

Bridger looked at her in surprise.

"Bill Noyce told me," she explained. "He called to ask about Lucas' condition, and he filled me in. He thought it important that I know, for Lucas' sake."

"Well, at least I don't have to repeat it all to you," Bridger said, deflated.

"It's just sick," Westphalen hissed. "How someone could do that to a boy, or anyone for that matter, I'll never understand. It's cruel."

"And Lucas was all alone. He was carrying that secret around for so long, and no one knew," Bridger said. "I wish he'd told me."

Westphalen rested a hand on his knee. "He's not alone anymore," she said softly. "He needs you."

Bridger took a deep breath and nodded sharply at her.

"I know," he said. "Let's go see him."


	12. Chapter 12

As the soft morning light brushed over Lucas' face, he squinted and lifted a hand weakly to his eyes, as though to swat something away. When that didn't work, he turned his head away from the light. But the bright assault had done its damage, and just a few minutes later Lucas blinked fully awake.

It was quiet in Lucas' room, and he guessed it must be very early. Bridger was sprawled in a chair beside the bed, his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the feet, his arms folded over his chest. Flowers, a bouquet of yellow daisies, already were sprouting from a table at the end of the bed, next to a water pitcher and several other objects that Lucas couldn't quite make out.

His vision was blurry, his head throbbed and his thoughts were still fuzzy, but for the first time in many hours Lucas felt truly aware of his surroundings. He could vaguely remember being rudely awoken throughout the night, poked by strange people who shined brilliant lights in his eyes and asked him inane questions that rarely even made any sense. He thought the captain had been there when he'd awoken in the night, and, seeing the man in the chair at his bedside, he now realized he hadn't been mistaken about that. Lucas smiled softly.

With this new awareness came memories, of course. Memories of how he'd come to be laid up in the hospital. Lucas pushed those thoughts aside and focused instead on the present. He took inventory of his various hurts and discomforts. Lucas took a deep breath and felt the slight pull of stitches at his side. His left arm was wrapped tightly against his chest, completely immobilized, the hand nearly reaching his right shoulder. Lucas lifted his right arm and found an IV line taped to the back of his hand. His entire torso pulsed with a dull ache, and he wondered what kind of pain medication they were giving him. Not enough, he decided. His head was pounding against his skull as though his brain intended to fight its way out.

As he shifted to test his legs and make sure there were no injuries he wasn't aware of, Lucas saw Bridger stir in the chair. The captain yawned widely and unfolded his arms, stretching them high over his head. He opened his eyes and blinked in surprise to find Lucas staring at him.

"Morning," Lucas whispered, his mouth dry.

"Good morning," Bridger answered. He glanced at his watch. "You beat the clock. The nurse isn't due to wake you up for another five minutes."

"You know me, always ahead of schedule," Lucas joked weakly.

Bridger smiled fondly at him and leaned forward in his chair. "How are you feeling?"

"Terrible," Lucas said honestly.

"Want me to call someone?"

"No, it can wait," Lucas said. "Can I have some water?"

Bridger glanced uncertainly at the pitcher. "I'm not sure if it's allowed," he admitted.

"Just a sip?"

"Well, I guess they wouldn't have put it there if you weren't supposed to have it," Bridger said and stood up, yawning again as he approached the table. He poured an inch of water into a cup and walked back to the bedside. Tucking a hand under Lucas' head, Bridger helped him take one sip before pulling the water away.

"Thanks," Lucas said, shutting his eyes and wincing as Bridger let his head drop back to the pillow.

"Well, looks like someone's been eagerly anticipating my arrival," announced a voice that was far too cheery, considering the early hour and the drumming in Lucas' head. He opened his eyes and gave a scowl to the nurse entering his room.

"You're early," Lucas said by way of greeting. The nurse checked her watch.

"You're right," she agreed. "Three minutes early. I can come back…"

"No, no, as long as you're here," Lucas placated.

"You're too kind," the nurse said, checking the IV bag next to Lucas' bed.

"I gave him some water. Just a little bit," Bridger said, sitting back in his chair. "I hope that's okay."

"Tattle tale," Lucas muttered.

"A little bit is fine," the nurse said, ignoring Lucas. "In fact, we might just let him eat breakfast this morning."

"Lucky me," Lucas groaned. The nausea that had mostly disappeared during the long night made a sudden reappearance at the thought of food.

"So how are you feeling this morning?" the nurse asked.

Lucas decided to go with the standard answer. "Terrible."

"Could you be more specific?" the nurse asked, shining a pen light in his eyes.

"I hurt everywhere."

"Thanks. That's helpful," the nurse said sarcastically. She turned his head to one side to check the bandage over the cut on his forehead.

"Nausea? Headache? Dizziness?" He nodded at all three. "Well, that's to be expected, unfortunately. You hit your head pretty hard. The symptoms will probably linger for a few days."

"Wonderful," Lucas said none-too-enthusiastically.

"Follow my finger," the nurse ordered, watching his eyes as he tried to keep up with the index finger panning across his vision. She wrote something on the clipboard she held. "All right, let's see how awake you really are this morning. Can you tell me your astrological sign?"

Lucas frowned in confusion. "Whatever happened to asking for my mother's maiden name or where I was born?"

"We've been through most of those. And anyway, this is more interesting," the nurse said. "So, what's your sign?"

"You know, that stuff's a load of crap," Lucas said in lieu of providing an answer.

"Hey," the nurse said, playing indignant, "I happen to take astrology very seriously. I bet you're a Pisces. They're known for they're skepticism."

"That's cheating. You've got my birthday right in front of you in that file."

"Oh, I don't need to see your file to know you're a Pisces," the nurse teased. "It's written all over you."

"Whatever," Lucas grumbled, but he smiled in spite of himself.

"You're awfully sassy for someone who couldn't even spell his name a few hours ago," the nurse said.

"It's a difficult name," Lucas offered. The nurse sighed.

"Fine, you won't give me your sign, just tell me your phone number," she said.

"Are you checking for brain damage or picking me up?"

"You wish," the nurse said. Lucas blushed, and gave his phone number. "Much better," she said, scratching something in his file. "Well, it looks like we can stop with the wake-up calls now and give you some uninterrupted sleep."

"Really? So he's okay?" Bridger asked.

"Looks that way. He's certainly perked up a bit since the last time I was in here, although I'm not sure that's a good thing," the nurse answered with a smile. "I'll have Dr. Rajim check on him in a few minutes. He can see about getting him something for the pain. But Lucas has been doing better with each check-up, so I imagine the doctor will let him get some rest. Looks like you could use some sleep too, Captain."

With that she gave them a curt goodbye and left. Lucas relaxed further into his pillow, and Bridger let loose with a wide yawn.

"You don't have to stay," Lucas said, noting for the first time how tired the captain looked. "Thanks for staying all night, but I'm feeling better now."

"Oh, I'll stick around a little longer," Bridger said.

"Really, it's okay."

"I know," Bridger said, gazing seriously at Lucas. "I'll stay awhile."

Lucas nodded and closed his eyes, but despite the fatigue and drugs that made his limbs feel heavy and his mind hazy, he knew sleep wouldn't come immediately. The pounding in his head had increased and was now making him mildly nauseous, and his chest and side ached with every breath.

Physical discomfort aside, Lucas had discovered upon waking something that was far more disconcerting: he felt vulnerable and emotionally unstable. He felt fragile. It was fine when the nurse was around and he could joke or scowl and pretend everything was normal. Now, though, he couldn't hide from his own thoughts.

His grip on the truth that he had uncovered the day before was tenuous, frayed by both physical injury and emotional shock. For now he was holding that truth at bay, locked in the back of his mind, but he feared he wouldn't be able to ignore it much longer. The truth was lurking, waiting for the first opportunity to burst to the front of his conscious. Lucas didn't know what would happen when it surfaced. But he certainly wanted to be alone when it happened.

"That was pretty ingenious, the way you rigged your PAL to send those messages yesterday," Bridger said, interrupting Lucas' thoughts. Lucas wondered how the captain knew he wasn't asleep. He opened his eyes and turned his head on the pillow, looking carefully at Bridger before shrugging.

"It wasn't a big deal," he said.

"Sure it was," Bridger beamed. "It was a pretty brave thing to do too."

"And stupid," Lucas added. "It nearly got me killed."

"I don't know about that. I doubt Brian Sullivan was going to let you go anyway."

"Brian Sullivan? Dr. Sullivan?"

"Yeah, do you know him?" Bridger asked.

"Not really. I mean, not before yesterday. I've heard of him," Lucas said. He swallowed hard. They were skirting topics he wasn't sure he wanted to touch. "So, he's really dead?"

"Sullivan?" Lucas nodded. "Yes, he's dead."

"I can't believe she killed him," Lucas said absently.

"She?"

"Jordan," Lucas said, looking at the captain. "Jordan Mathers. My father's assistant."

"So she really was there," Bridger mused. "We weren't sure if she'd been part of it all. Skipper was able to describe a woman, and we knew Mathers was missing, but we hadn't been able to confirm the connection."

"Yeah, she was there."

"And she was the one who killed Sullivan?"

Lucas nodded slowly. "She saved my life. He was going to stab me again, and she hit him with the sculpture."

Bridger appeared to consider this new information, nodding his head thoughtfully.

"How did they manage to get you in the first place?" he asked.

"It's a long story," Lucas muttered and turned his head away. This territory was definitely off limits.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, but eventually we're going to need to know," Bridger said quietly. Lucas nodded, refusing to look at the captain. "Lucas, we know about the messages from your father."

"They weren't from my father," Lucas said sharply.

"I know."

"And anyway, I don't want to talk about it," Lucas continued.

"I won't make you talk about it, not now," Bridger said. "But it might make you feel better."

"I feel fine," Lucas insisted, but he knew the captain could see the flush rising in his cheeks. "It's stupid anyway."

"How is it stupid?"

"It just is," Lucas stormed. "I don't know why I ever believed the messages were from my father. They weren't anything like him. He would never have said any of that. I was stupid to ever believe them. I was stupid to ever think he was still alive."

He shut his eyes at that, furious to feel tears welling. He was not going to cry over this. Not now. Not in front of Bridger.

"You weren't stupid," Bridger said, his voice firm but patient.

"Wasn't I?" Lucas demanded. He could feel the anger rising in him, making his head throb and his pulse race. But even directed at himself, he liked this anger, preferred it over the terrible grief that was still lurking in the back of his mind. So he poked at it, stoking his anger with vicious thoughts and words.

"I was so gullible," he said, nearly yelling. "I knew my father, Captain. I knew how he felt about me, how little he cared about me. And I let myself believe he had changed, that he was even capable of changing. I was like some little kid, getting my hopes up just so I can get kicked back down. I was an idiot. A moron. Stupid!"

He stopped there, breathing heavily. He felt sweat beading on his forehead and his body shaking. He felt himself losing control.

"You weren't stupid," Bridger repeated softly.

"I was," Lucas insisted, his voice breaking. "I wanted so much to believe it. I did believe it. I really believed he loved me." He was crying now, the tears spilling hotly as he stared unseeing out the window.

"He did love you," Bridger said. "He wasn't good at showing it, and he probably didn't tell you as often as he should have, but he loved you."

"You don't know that," Lucas said brokenly. "You never knew my father."

"No, I didn't," Bridger agreed. "But I know you. And I know you're a smart kid, and you wouldn't have believed those messages if there wasn't some semblance of truth in them. You, Lucas, knew deep down that your father loved you."

Lucas shook his head, but he considered what the captain said. And he remembered. In flashes of memory, he saw his father reading to him, and taking him out for a milkshake, and calling him just before he died, to tell him he loved him.

"He's dead," Lucas said, barely a whisper. "I miss him, Captain."

Bridger sat on the bed as Lucas began to sob, gripping his hand and brushing fingers over his dirty blond hair over and over again.

"I know you do," Bridger whispered.

xxxXXXxxx

Lucas wasn't sure how long he lay crying in his hospital bed, but after awhile his sobs faded to stilted sniffles, and he became aware once again of the ache in his shoulder. His head still turned away from the captain, he asked for some water.

"Sure," Bridger said, squeezing Lucas' hand before letting go. Lucas felt the bed shift slightly as Bridger stood up to pour some water. He rubbed his right hand under his runny nose. "Here you go."

Lucas pushed himself up a bit higher in the bed and took the glass from Bridger, mumbling his thanks. The water felt cool and clean and he nearly drained the glass before handing it back. The captain exchanged it for a handful of tissues, and Lucas thanked him again. As he wiped the tears off his face, still refusing to look at the captain, Lucas examined his feelings. He was surprised to find very little to examine. His head felt empty and unfocused. His misery seemed dulled, and the fragility that had haunted him since waking up that morning had disappeared entirely.

He was also very sleepy. Lucas felt his eyes drooping shut and he blinked wearily at the ceiling. He found himself rather enjoying this emptiness that had replaced his anger and grief, and he almost smiled.

"So, I hear someone's been giving the nurses a hard time this morning?" Lucas looked up to see Dr. Rajim, a small-boned man with shiny black hair and thin glasses, walking toward the foot of his bed. "How are you feeling?"

Lucas shrugged and winced at the stab of pain in his shoulder.

"I see," the doctor said. "Well, let's check out your head first."

He ran the same tests that the nurse had done awhile ago, and added his own notes to the clipboard. After flipping through a few pages from Lucas' medical file, he tucked the clipboard under an arm and grinned.

"You're looking much better," he said. "I imagine you'll have some residual symptoms from the concussion for a little while. It really was a pretty bad knock to the head. But I think we'll be able to release you tomorrow afternoon, assuming everything still checks out then."

Lucas smiled softly at the news. He still hurt enough that he wasn't particularly eager to leave the hospital, but it was a relief to know he wasn't facing a long stay either.

"Now, as for these other injuries, the nurse said you were having some pain?" Dr. Rajim asked, leaning across Lucas to examine the shoulder wound.

"Yeah, but my head hurts more than anything else."

"Unfortunately, that's to be expected," the doctor said, shifting to look at the stitches in Lucas' side. "I still don't want to give you anything too strong with that concussion. But I'll have a nurse come by with something in a few minutes."

Dr. Rajim took a few minutes to scribble more notes in Lucas' file.

"Okay then, do you have any questions?" he asked.

"What about my arm?" Lucas asked.

"Oh, that'll be fine," the doctor said. "We only had it bandaged up to your chest like that to keep you from moving it around too much when you were unconscious. I'll have someone remove some of the bandages later this morning. We'll still need to immobilize it, but you should feel more comfortable with a sling."

"So my arm will be okay?" Lucas asked, drawing his hand into a fist as though to test his strength. "There wasn't any permanent damage?"

"Oh no, nothing like that," Dr. Rajim said. "Although it was a close call. An inch or two one way or another and it might be a different story. No, in a couple months you should be back to normal."

"A couple months?" Lucas gaped.

The doctor nearly laughed. "You were stabbed, son. You can't recover from that in a few days."

"No, I guess not, but a couple months?"

"What he really wants to know," Bridger interrupted, "is how long before he can type with his left hand."

Lucas scowled at the captain, but admitted to himself it was true. He turned to the doctor for the answer.

"Typing? With most kids it's video games they want to get back to."

"Well, that too," said the captain.

Lucas glared at both of them.

"I'd guess a week or two," Dr. Rajim said. "But you'll probably have to wear a sling for at least four to six weeks."

Lucas groaned.

"Oh, stop your complaining," Bridger teased. "Just think about the great scar you're going to have."

"That's true," Lucas said, brightening a bit. "But four weeks?"

"Four to six weeks," Dr. Rajim corrected. "I'll be back to check on you later this afternoon. Just get some rest, and do what the nurses say."

"No problem," Lucas said.

"Right," Bridger mumbled. The doctor laughed again and waved on his way out.

The room was quiet for a few moments after the doctor's departure. Lucas was again averting his eyes from Bridger, wary of another discussion and slightly ashamed of his earlier breakdown. But Bridger seemed inclined to let matters rest for now, and kept his thoughts to himself. Lucas, his eyes growing heavy again, yawned into his hand.

"Can I get you anything?" Bridger asked.

"No, thanks," Lucas said. He glanced uneasily at the captain.

"How are you feeling?" Bridger asked meaningfully.

He knew the captain wasn't asking about his injuries. Lucas didn't answer right away, thinking over his response carefully. "Okay, I guess," he finally said. "Tired."

"I bet," Bridger said with a small smile. "Why don't you get some sleep. I'll be here."

"You don't-"

"I know I don't," he said. "But I will. Close your eyes."

Lucas obeyed. A moment later he opened them again and stared sleepily at the captain.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"You're welcome," Bridger whispered back. "Now go to sleep."


	13. Chapter 13

With the notable exception of Ben Krieg, Lucas had always considered the crew of the seaQuest extremely well mannered. They rarely swore like sailors, anyway – unless they were talking about the summer weather in Southern Florida. Many of the officers had been stationed there at some point in their UEO careers, and the weather was something of a private joke – a joke that used words that would have made a career sailor like Crocker blush.

Finally Lucas understood why.

Polite words like "humid" and "hot" and "muggy" weren't nearly good enough to describe what was happening outside in New Cape Quest. Lucas felt ridiculously overdressed in his shorts and T-shirt. He felt his boxers clinging to spots they most definitely shouldn't, and the sweat wasn't just dripping down his back, it was cascading. Sprawled on a sofa in Bridger's living room, Lucas wondered what exactly the captain had against air conditioning.

Lucas had been released from the hospital four days ago to a record heat wave. Or that's what it felt like. According to the newspapers, 100 degrees in the shade was normal. It didn't help matters that Lucas' chest and shoulder were still cocooned in bandages, or that he hadn't been able to shake the headache and dizziness that remained of his concussion.

Lucas turned a page of the magazine in his lap. He'd been sitting with the magazine for close to an hour now, and he hadn't read a single article, or even bothered to look at any of the pages. His attention was fixed outside, where Bridger was repairing a lawnmower on the back deck. With Founders' Day approaching, the captain was technically supposed to be participating in a week's worth of UEO celebrations. But Bridger said he had bowed out of all of them to stay home with Lucas. Now he was repairing the lawnmower, or trying to. Through the windows in the back of the house, opened wide as though to tempt a breeze into the stifling hot living room, Lucas could see and hear everything the captain was doing. He smiled when he heard Bridger swear. Again.

"You think it's funny, why don't you try fixing it?"

Lucas' smile withered when he saw that Bridger had caught him staring. He didn't answer, just lowered his eyes to the magazine and stared at the words until he heard Bridger go back to work on the lawnmower.

All of the days since Lucas had come home from the hospital had passed in much the same way. Lucas mostly slept, ate and avoided conversation.

Lucas wasn't quite ashamed of his breakdown at the hospital with the captain. The logical part of him understood that it had been therapeutic, and that Bridger didn't think any less of him for losing control. But that didn't mean he had to like it, or seek that kind of emotional unloading again. Lucas still felt painfully vulnerable. He was doing all that he could to distract himself from thinking or feeling, but it was difficult when he felt physically weak and there was still so much left unresolved about the past six weeks. 

Upon arriving home, Lucas had quickly realized that he had few options for keeping himself entertained. His laptop was gone, taken as evidence by police investigators. Lucas had been secretly pleased to find it missing, not eager to even look at, much less use, the computer that had caused him so much grief. Besides, he still had Bridger's computer, but with only one hand to type he'd become frustrated by how slow he had to work.

Not that it mattered much anyway, as his head injury made it difficult to concentrate on anything. It was a symptom that the doctor said would improve in a few days, but for now it meant he had trouble reading, writing or sometimes even carrying on long conversations. Meanwhile, the blood loss from his stab wounds made him weak, and merely standing for more than a few minutes left him tired and light-headed.

So he was left in what he considered the worst possible situation: he had nothing to do but think.

"It's really hot today."

Lucas jerked on the sofa, startled by the captain's voice. Recovering quickly, he said, "It's hot everyday. Tell me again why we don't have air conditioning?"

"Because, that's exactly the kind of technology I was trying to escape from when I built this place," Bridger explained patiently.

"And the computer? The washing machine? The TV?"

"Even I've got my limits," Bridger said. "Just keep the windows open. A nice breeze-"

"-is bound to come along. Yeah, I know," Lucas finished, and turned another page in the unread magazine.

"What sounds good for lunch?" Bridger asked, laughing when Lucas ducked under an attempt to ruffle his hair as the captain passed by the couch to the kitchen.

"I don't care," Lucas answered. His stomach rumbled at the mention of food, and he thought he heard it call out for a grilled cheese sandwich.

"How about grilled cheese?" the captain called out from the kitchen.

Lucas stared in awe at his stomach. "That's fine," he answered.

Suddenly bored now that he didn't have Bridger's pathetic attempts at fixing the lawnmower to entertain him, Lucas dragged himself off the couch, plucking at the T-shirt that was sticking to his chest. He paused momentarily to let a wave of dizziness pass before wandering into the kitchen. He tried to ignore the new patch of carpet – it was stiffer and brighter than the surrounding areas – that had replaced the piece stained with blood. Lucas sat at the kitchen table, where he could watch Bridger slicing chunks of cheddar cheese.

"Your mom called again today," Bridger announced, his back to Lucas. When Lucas didn't respond, he continued. "She still wants to visit. I told her you were doing fine but it might be better if she came down in a few weeks, when you can show her around town."

"Thanks," Lucas said quietly. He suspected his mother was only asking to visit because it was what was expected of her. She was probably at least as relieved as he was to have an excuse not to come. Time spent with his mom was almost guaranteed to be awkward and stressful, and it would be even worse with him injured and her unsure how to act around him. Besides, she wouldn't travel anywhere without Rick, and his stepfather was just about the last person Lucas wanted to see.

Bridger was grilling the sandwiches now, pressing the bread down with the back of a spatula so the pan sizzled and spat. Lucas watched, transfixed, as tiny spots of butter squirted from between the slices of bread and landed on the countertop.

"What are your plans for the day?" Bridger asked, lifting a sandwich out of the pan.

"Same as yesterday, I guess," Lucas said. "Thanks," he added, as Bridger set the sandwich in front of him.

"Lemonade?" Bridger asked a moment later when he took the seat across from Lucas at the table. It was a rhetorical question; he already had two glasses of juice. Next to Lucas' glass Bridger also set down two pale blue tablets. Lucas scowled at the pills but swallowed them without comment.

They ate in silence for several minutes, listening to each other chew. Lucas mostly studied his sandwich, the captain gazed thoughtfully out the window as though trying to solve the lawnmower puzzle.

The quiet was broken when Lucas put down his sandwich and began absentmindedly rubbing at the stitches in his shoulder.

"Stop itching," Bridger said.

"Scratching."

Bridger raised his eyebrows in confusion. "What?"

"Stop scratching. Itch is a noun."

"Stop correcting my grammar," Bridger said. Lucas smiled at him and returned to his sandwich. He paused mid-chew when he realized the captain was still staring, and looked up to find Bridger beaming at him.

"What?" Lucas asked after swallowing his food. It was his turn to be confused.

"That's two smiles in one day," Bridger said fondly.

Lucas opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it and settled for a nod instead. He knew the captain had to be well aware of his despondency – they lived together, after all – but it still felt odd to hear him actually say something about it. Neither of them had brought up his father or the stabbing at all since he'd come home.

"I'm going outside for awhile," Lucas announced when he'd finished his sandwich. He wiped his mouth with a crumpled napkin and carried his plate to the kitchen. He left the glass on the table, unable to carry both items with one arm in a sling.

"Want some company?" Bridger asked. Lucas could feel him staring at his back.

"No, thanks."

"Stay out of the sun," Bridger warned.

"I know."

Lucas stooped to pick up his magazine on his way out the back door. On the deck, he squinted into the bright sun for a few moments, trying to remember where he'd left his sunglasses as he let his eyes adjust to the light. The constant ache in his head thumped briefly against his temple, then dulled again. He walked down the steps that led off the deck and into the sand.

He took a few minutes to get settled in his favorite chair. It was low to the ground with a meshed back that caved under his weight as he shifted to find a position that allowed him to rest his head against the back and still keep his arm comfortably elevated. The chair sat in one of the very few shady spots outside, below the deck and just out of reach from the high afternoon sun.

Lucas opened his magazine again but didn't bother looking at it. He stared out at the ocean instead, letting his eyes become unfocused until the sea and the horizon blended together, and his head drooped toward the side. Just as he fell asleep, he faintly heard Bridger pounding on the lawnmower and swearing, and he smiled for the third time that day.

xxxXXXxxx

It was late when Lucas woke from his nap in the chair beneath the deck; the mid-afternoon shadows had stretched as the sun sank behind the house, but the air was still thick and overly warm.

Lucas yawned and stretched his legs out in front of him. He could smell the musty scent of charcoal and lighter fluid coming from the deck, which meant they would have barbecue for dinner. He hoped it wasn't more emu burgers.

"Good evening, sleepyhead," Bridger called down to Lucas as he stood somewhat shakily from his chair. "Have a good nap?"

"I guess," Lucas said around another yawn.

"Kristin's coming over for dinner. I thought we'd have emu burgers."

Lucas groaned. "Again?"

"I thought you liked Dr. Westphalen," Bridger teased.

Lucas groaned again.

"Don't worry, Kristin's bringing some of those tasteless patties you call burgers. You have no sense of adventure."

"I've already had plenty of adventure," Lucas mumbled.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Lucas said louder. "I'm going down to say hi to Darwin."

"Want some company?" Bridger asked.

"No, thanks."

Lucas was barefoot and the sand was still hot, so he hopped more than walked down to the short pier where Bridger kept his boat docked. He felt winded by the time he stepped onto the wood planks. He was breathing heavily as he eased down onto the end of the pier and whistled for Darwin. The dolphin arrived in less than a minute, bobbing to the water's surface to rub his back against the bottoms of Lucas' feet.

"Hey, Darwin," Lucas said quietly. He scrunched his toes against Darwin's wet nose as the dolphin poked his head out of the water and seemed to grin at Lucas. Carefully, his shoulder and side protesting the movement, Lucas leaned over and briefly ran a hand over Darwin's smooth skin.

He'd been down to the pier at least twice a day since coming home from the hospital. Lucas wondered if Darwin was aware something had changed with Lucas, that something was wrong. He suspected Darwin knew, and somehow Lucas was comforted by that thought.

"Sorry I don't have any fish with me," Lucas said. Darwin barked at him. "I'll remember next time."

With a long squeak, Darwin nudged one more time at Lucas' feet then dove into the water, coming up seconds later into a grand, arching flip. The resulting splash caught Lucas full in the face, and he laughed out loud.

"That's amazing," came an awed whisper from behind. Lucas spun around to find Cheryl standing at the opposite end of the pier. Her hands were behind her back, and her stringy, sun-bleached hair hung over much of her face. "I didn't know he was that friendly."

"Yeah, he likes people," Lucas said. Cheryl seemed to snap out of her astonishment at his words and blushed. She quickly looked down at the pier.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she said to her feet.

"You're not bothering me," Lucas said.

"I, um, I just came by to see how you were doing. Captain Bridger said I could come down."

"I'm fine," Lucas said. She raised her eyes long enough to glance at the sling and then at his face, which he knew was still badly bruised. "Well, mostly fine," he amended.

"I'm glad," she whispered, eyes down again.

They were both quiet. Cheryl shifted on her feet, and Lucas ran a hand through his hair, wet from Darwin's splash.

"I meant to thank you, for what you did," Lucas said finally.

She looked up at him in surprise. "I didn't really do anything."

"Are you kidding? The doctors said you might've saved my life. I could've bled to death if you hadn't been there."

Cheryl shrugged.

"Why were you there, anyway?" Lucas asked. He had yet to hear the entire story of his rescue. He knew Skipper had called Bridger, which explained how the captain and Westphalen got there. But that was all.

"Oh." Cheryl took a deep breath, as though preparing for an important speech. "We, I mean my brothers and sisters and I, we were hanging out in the front yard when we saw that strange car drive by."

"Yeah," Lucas said slowly. "I remember seeing you guys playing."

"Uh huh." Cheryl nodded. "Well, you know we almost never get strange cars on the island, so we decided to follow it and see where it went. By the time we saw it in your driveway, you were already inside."

"Did you know it was me in the car?" Lucas asked, remembering the hood he'd been made to wear.

Cheryl shook her head. "No. I just saw a woman driving and two other people in the car. When we saw where the car had stopped, we decided to go back home. A little while later we were in the backyard, because Lucy and Stephen wanted to go swimming and I had to watch them. Mama and Dad were shopping, so I was in charge."

She blushed again, as though aware she was sliding off topic.

"Anyway, all of a sudden I looked over at Mr. Diamond's house – he's our next door neighbor," she added, and Lucas nodded that he knew who Mr. Diamond was, "and the woman who was driving the car was stealing his boat."

"Really?" Lucas asked. "Is that how she got away?"

Cheryl nodded. "Yeah. Trevor wanted to run over and stop her, but I had a bad feeling about it, so I made him go next door and tell Mr. Diamond instead."

"That was smart," Lucas said, and Cheryl's cheeks flushed even further.

"The whole thing seemed really strange," Cheryl went on. "I kept trying to figure out why she would run away like that. And I started to get kind of worried, I guess."

She stopped suddenly and chewed nervously on her lip.

"You were worried…" Lucas prompted, unsure why she had paused.

"I was worried, um, about you, I guess." She shot a glance at him then quickly resumed her story. "I didn't even know for sure whether you were home, but, well, like I said, it was all very strange, and I knew she'd been at your house. So I told Lucy to watch Stephen and I decided to check out your house."

"Because you thought something might be wrong," he said, nodding thoughtfully.

"Yeah. But I wasn't sure what I was going to do," Cheryl said. "I mean, it seemed strange just to knock on your door and ask if everything was okay. But it didn't matter, because when I got there the front door was wide open. I called out to you and Captain Bridger a few times, but no one answered. I was just going to peek in, see if I could hear anything, I guess, when I saw you."

Lucas nodded slowly. He couldn't begin to imagine the shock she must have felt when she'd found him.

"It was terrible," she said, her voice soft and shaking. "There was blood everywhere. And you were so still. I thought maybe… So then I went in, and I saw that man on the floor too, and I called the police. I know a little first aid, my parents insist that we take classes, and all I could do was try to stop the bleeding. But there was that knife, and you wouldn't wake up at first… I was so worried."

She stopped finally and Lucas realized that he was breathing heavily, nearly gasping. He could hear the blood pulsing in his head. Then he looked up and saw that Cheryl was crying.

"Hey," he started, and swung his legs up onto the pier so he could stand and go to her. But she put up a hand to keep him away.

"I'm sorry," she choked, running a hand under her nose.

"No, don't apologize," he said. "I'm sorry."

The both fell silent. Lucas kneeled awkwardly at the edge of the pier, and Cheryl wiped at her eyes and cheeks.

"I should probably get back home," she said after a few minutes, her voice stronger now but still quiet as ever. "Um, I brought you this."

She brought a hand from behind her back and handed him a blue gift bag. He took it and pulled out a gray stuffed animal – what type of animal it was supposed to be, he couldn't tell.

"Thank you," he said.

Cheryl shrugged. "You're welcome," she answered. "Um, Trevor said you should come over sometime, you know, when you feel up to it."

"I will," Lucas said.

"Okay," she said, and crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, good night."

"Thanks again," he said. Cheryl flashed a timid smile and in a flash of blond hair, she raced back up the beach.

Lucas sighed as she ran away, then slowly turned back around on the pier and let his legs dangle over the end again. The stuffed animal sat in his lap. He was looking for Darwin when he heard Bridger approach from behind.

"Hey," Lucas said as the captain sat next to him on the pier.

"What's that?" Bridger asked, pointing to the stuffed animal.

"It's a stuffed animal," Lucas said.

"I know that," Bridger said, exasperated. "But it's no animal I've ever seen."

"Could be an otter," Lucas said, holding it up in what remained of the evening light.

"Or a whale," Bridger guessed.

They both studied it as Lucas slowly turned it in circles. Suddenly they both broke into grins.

"A dolphin," they said together.

"You know, I think she likes you," Bridger said, taking the gift from Lucas.

"Who?"

Bridger gave Lucas a look of total disbelief. "Cheryl," he said.

"Really?" Lucas asked. He turned to look behind him, as though hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

"Yep, really," Bridger said. He shoved the stuffed dolphin back at Lucas.

"But I bled all over her," Lucas said. "And just now, I made her cry."

"Are you kidding? Girls love that kind of thing."

"What kind of thing?" Lucas asked, completely bewildered.

"Bleeding. Hurting. They love to see a guy in pain."

"That's sick. Why would they love something like that?"

Bridger shrugged. "Who knows? It must bring out the mothering instinct or something. There's nothing a woman likes more than being able to take care of a guy."

"Really," Lucas said thoughtfully.

"Hey, don't get any ideas," Bridger warned with a smile.

"Don't worry. I won't."

They sat in comfortable quiet for awhile, kicking their legs over the water and watching Darwin turn somersaults in the distant waves. The sun was beginning to set behind them, and it painted the water gold.

Lucas looked up when he heard Bridger take a deep breath beside him.

"This came for you," the captain said, and handed over a package.

"What is it?" Lucas asked as he set the stuffed dolphin to one side and grabbed the package. Bridger didn't answer, and Lucas studied the parcel. It was a box wrapped in brown paper, with his name and address scrawled in hasty handwriting on the front. There was no return address. The brown paper had already been opened, then carefully folded back over the package. Lucas glanced at Bridger, his eyebrows raised in question.

"Skipper brought it over a few days ago," Bridger explained. "I had the police check it out first."

Lucas nodded. "Did they find anything?"

"No."

Lucas looked down at the package and saw that his hand was shaking. He set the parcel in his lap and carefully pulled off the paper. He gasped softly when three books slid out.

"Lord of the Rings," Lucas said softly. He flipped through the pages of the first book, recognizing in flashes of text the names and places he hadn't thought of in years. Tucked toward the back of the book was a piece of paper folded into quarters. Lucas took it out and opened it, finding a letter written in the same messy script that was on the front of the package.

__

Dear Lucas,

I won't bother apologizing. What I have done is inexcusable and I won't ask your forgiveness.

Your father wanted you to have these books as a gift for finishing your tour on the seaQuest. He never got a chance to send them, so I'm giving them to you now.

I hope you are well.

Jordan

He reread the letter once before passing it to Bridger, who glanced at the note, then turned to study Lucas. But Lucas kept his head turned toward the ocean, willing away the tears that were threatening to spill. He would not cry over his father again.

"I remember reading those books in high school," Bridger said. He reached over to take the first book and thumbed through the pages. "I don't remember them very well, but I think my favorite character was called Gandalf. Oh, and here's Strider, I remember him. And Frodo. Of course I remember Frodo."

Lucas closed his eyes and wiped angrily at the tear that escaped down his cheek.

"My father was never going to give these to me," he said, silently cursing the quiver he heard in his voice. "He probably had no idea it was the end of tour. He didn't even remember my birthday. This was her idea."

"You don't know that," Bridger suggested.

"Don't I?" Lucas said, turning on the captain.

"These books have special meaning for you, don't they?"

Lucas cringed and looked out at the water again.

"That document he sent you. Frodo. Why do you think he named it that?"

"Look, it doesn't even matter."

Bridger reached out and laid a hand on Lucas' arm, turning him so they were facing each other. Lucas refused to meet his eyes, looking instead past the captain's shoulder. The setting sun sparkled in his peripheral vision.

"Why doesn't it matter?" Bridger said gently, still gripping Lucas' arm.

"Because my father was responsible," Lucas yelled. He spun around fully, ripping his arm away from the captain and bringing his legs up on the pier in front of him. The books slid off his lap and onto the pier. He ignored the pain that sliced through his injured side. "My father had that document, he knew what he was doing was wrong, and he did it anyway. He kept that report from the UEO, all to protect himself and his science. And eight people died! He was responsible for those people. For all I know he killed the guy who wrote the report too. He did terrible things, Captain. I can't ever forget that. I won't let myself."

"You don't know that he did all that," said Bridger, calm but stern.

"I know enough."

"No, you don't know enough. And maybe you never will." Lucas stared at Bridger, who was frowning and shaking his head. "You'll probably never know exactly what your father did or didn't do. You're right, maybe he did terrible things, maybe he was responsible for those people who died, and hell, just maybe he did kill that man."

Lucas was stunned. Now that the words were out there, he wanted desperately to take it all back, to defend his father, to do everything to prove his innocence. But before he could speak, Bridger continued.

"But maybe he didn't," Bridger said, and he reached out again to grip Lucas' shoulder. "Lucas, your dad was a terrible father." Lucas opened his mouth in alarm, but Bridger waved a hand for him to keep quiet. "He wasn't there for you when he should've been and he didn't say or do the things a father's supposed to. And he probably did some bad things in the name of science. But that doesn't mean he was a bad man."

"He had that document, Captain. He knew what was going to happen," Lucas stuttered. Bridger lowered his hand to reach around Lucas' neck, pulling Lucas toward him and staring carefully into his eyes. Lucas could feel the tears surfacing again, but he didn't care.

"I know, Lucas. But he did a good thing, in the end."

"Did he?"

"Yeah," Bridger said, smiling gently. "He sent that file to his son, and he trusted you to fix what he had done wrong. He knew you would do the right thing."

Lucas nodded carefully, too shaken to speak.

"It's all up to you now," Bridger said, and he laid his other hand on Lucas' chest. "You can believe what you want about your father. You can believe he was a terrible person, that he did all of the things you fear the most. Or you can believe he wanted to do the right thing, that he tried to be a good man, and that's what matters. It's up to you to decide."

Lucas blinked carefully and lowered his head. The tears felt cool on his flushed cheeks as they dripped off his chin and into his lap. He saw the books lying on the pier and he picked one up. Maybe his father had meant to give him the books. Maybe he hadn't. Lucas decided it didn't matter. He would read them anyway.

Bridger pulled Lucas to his side, careful of his injured shoulder, and wrapped an arm around him. Clutching the book to his chest, Lucas let himself cry quietly, and the captain said nothing, just passed his hand slowly over his hair and held him.

The sun had long set and the dusk was deepening to gray when they finally stirred on the pier. Lucas sat up slowly and turned his head as he wiped the tears from his face.

"I'm starving," Bridger announced, climbing to his feet. "Kristin probably figures I took you swimming with the dolphins. You ready to head back?"

"Yeah," Lucas said. He fumbled trying to gather the books and stuffed dolphin with just one arm.

"Here, I'll take it," Bridger said, grabbing the stuffed animal and helping Lucas stack the books. "What are you going to name it?"

"You even have to ask?" Lucas asked.

Bridger laughed and looped his arm around Lucas' shoulder as they trudged back up the beach toward his house. They could see Westphalen standing on the deck, her arms crossed over her chest in obvious concern. They had a lecture waiting for them. Bridger waved playfully at her, dolphin in hand.

"She looks angry," Lucas mumbled.

"She always looks that way."

"You like her. A lot."

"And what would you know about that?" Bridger teased.

"More than you think."

"Oh?" Bridger raised an eyebrow.

Lucas slowed his pace slightly, kicking at the sand with his bare toes. "Captain, what's going to happen next?"

"What do you mean?" asked Bridger, frowning.

"Now that my dad's, well, really gone, where am I supposed to go? I can't stay here forever."

"Sure you can," Bridger said. He squeezed Lucas' neck affectionately. "Don't worry, Lucas. This year's going to be great."

"Really," Lucas said uncertainly. "What're we going to do?"

"Well, first of all there's a small matter of building a new boat."

Fin


End file.
